Book
III
I
A Wind in the Triangle
I
The March wind went shrieking over the Midland Plain. Under a sky as rapid, ragged, and tumultuous as a revolution, all the standing water, the gathered thaws and rains of February, filling the dykes and spreading over innumerable fields, was ruffled and whitened, so that the day glittered coldly. There was ice even yet in this wind, but already there were other things too, shreds and tatters of sunlight, sudden spicy gusts, distant trumpetings of green armies on the march. Unless you were one of the patient men of the fields, following the great shining flanks of your horses across the ten-acre and already hearing the sap stirring, you did not know what to do in the face of such a wind. It was up to all manner of tricks. “Grrrr! Get indoors and stay there!” it would go screaming. “Poke the fire! Whe‑ew!” And it might send a lash of hail after you. But then not quarter of an hour later, it might be crying “Come out, come out! The year’s begun,” promising primroses, and spilling a little pale sunlight down the road. The moment you did go out, however, it would give a sharp twitch, darkening the sky again, and with a long Whe‑ew Grrrr! would sting your cheeks and set your eyes watering. A most mischievous wind.
Away it went, across the central plain of England, until at last it pounced upon those three little industrial towns, Gatford, Mundley, and Stort, that are known as the Triangle, and more recently, since the towns gave themselves up to the mass production of cheap cars, the Tin Triangle. There are very few towns in this island so close together as Gatford, Mundley, and Stort, and a stranger might easily imagine they were all one town. On the other hand, there are hardly any other towns that seem farther away from anywhere else: Gatford jostles Mundley and Stort, and Mundley and Stort creep closer to one another; but the three of them appear to be almost as remote as a constellation from any other place of importance. Those short nonstop runs on the railway from Gatford to either Manchester or Birmingham always seem miraculous; and when that daily procession of brand-new cars, shiny saloons or chassis with drivers perched on boxes, slides away down the London Road, it strikes the visitor as a most hazardous enterprise, an adventure. The Trianglers themselves, too, regard this daily departure of new Imperial Sixes and Lumbdens and Baby Sceptres as part of a great adventure. Nowadays cars pour out and money pours into the Triangle. It is said that J. J. Lumbden, the son of old Lumbden who kept the bicycle shop in Cobden Street, Gatford, is worth nearly half a million and steadfastly refuses the most gigantic offers from America. The Sceptre people are building yet another factory between Mundley and Stort. And nobody can say there is anything tinny about the Imperial Six, the pride of North Gatford and Stort, where every other man is a mechanic. There is hardly a schoolboy in the Triangle, even in South Gatford, where there are detached villas and tennis clubs and boulevards, who does not groan with impatience, to think he is wasting his time with stuff about Magna Carta and Rivers of South America and Adverbs when he might be working in one of the car factories, swaggering out at half past five, very black and knowing. Useless to talk to the Triangle about bad trade and what might be done with the unemployed; it never knew such days before; Gatford is nearly twice the size it was twenty years ago, and Mundley and Stort, invaded by mechanics from every part of the Midlands, are growing visibly, at the rate of so many new little red bricks per fine working day. These are adventurous times for the three towns. The March wind, itself supremely adventurous, pounced upon them with glee. Here, it seemed to shout, was something better to play with than naked fields and branches and thin tremulous sheets of water.
It swooped down and charged the steady swarm of cars, the trams that lumber from Gatford to Mundley, Stort to Mundley, Gatford to Stort, the buses that dodge and hoot at and overtake these trams. It whipped off a loose tile and even a chimney-pot here and there. After seeking out any tattered posters on the hoardings and turning them into drums, it rounded up all the odd pieces of paper in the streets and compelled them to join in a witches‚Äô Sabbath. This most mischievous wind then found an open window on the second floor of a building in Victoria Street, Gatford, sent some papers skimming from the table to the floor, and compelled a certain gentleman, who had been staring at some figures and now found himself shivering, to look up and speak crossly to his companion and employee. This is Mr.¬ÝRidvers, but when he is in this tiny office he calls himself the Triangle New Era Cinema Co., and it is from here he controls the destinies of The Tivoli Picture Palace, Gatford, The Coliseum Picture House, Mundley, and The Royal Cinema, Stort, the only three cinemas of any importance in the district.
‚ÄúFor God‚Äôs sake, Ethel,‚Äù he said, ‚Äúshut that window. Look at those letters‚ÅÝ‚Äîall over the damn floor. Besides, it‚Äôs cold.‚Äù
From behind her typewriter, Ethel gave him a curious sideways look. She was a girl in her twenties, with a rather flat Mongolian face, hard staring eyes, and a thick daubed mouth. “It was you who wanted it open,” she remarked. “Told you it was cold.”
“Well, I want it shut now,” he grunted, without looking up again from the papers in his hand.
“All right, all right,” and she closed the window. There was nothing respectful in her tones, and there was something downright disrespectful in the way she moved. The exaggerated thrust and lift of her shoulders gave the impression that her body was making really impudent remarks about her employer. There was a suggestion that it had the right to make such remarks and that he knew very well it had.
Mr.¬ÝRidvers examined the figures before him a minute or two longer, then stood up and threw the papers on the table. He found a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, relit it, and pulled furiously at it, frowning all the time. Ethel watched him out of the corner of her eye with amusement. He had been in a bad mood all morning and now he was obviously very angry indeed. As a matter of fact, he was a middle-aged man who ate too much, drank far too much whisky, took too little exercise, and was plagued by an outraged liver. He had his grievances, but it was really the sudden cold lash of the wind that had now put a sharp edge on his temper.
“Well?” And there was a certain malice in Ethel’s query.
“Well nothing!” he exploded. “These returns are worse than I thought. It was Stort last week. I suppose it’ll be Mundley this week. I’d never have believed it. These flaming little pierrots are knocking hell out of the returns.”
“I told you what it would be.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start that! Never knew a woman yet who didn’t think she’d gone and told me everything. People here must have gone balmy. Pierrots!”
“They’re crowded out every night,” said Ethel.
“Yes, I know they are. I’m not silly. Even so, they oughtn’t to have knocked us like this. Damn it all, there ought to be enough money in these three towns to keep us going as usual even if they are crowded out. I’ve given ’em good programmes.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ethel replied coolly. “You know very well you cut it a bit on the renting.”
“What if I did? Matter of fact I had to cut it to show Farrow and his Syndicate a good margin. And what diff’rence does it make, what I paid for the renting. They’ve never seen the bloody pictures before, have they? Well then! No, it’s this pierrot show that’s done it. Who ever would have thought it! Talk about luck!”
“I hear they’re putting the prices up too,” said Ethel, who seemed to delight in flicking him on the raw.
‚ÄúThey would!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝRidvers bitterly. ‚ÄúThat means all the less money for us. Seems to me if these people spend two and four they‚Äôve finished for the week. Luck! They won‚Äôt even let me smell it.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝRidvers made a number of sounds to express his disgust and then savagely jammed his cigar against the ashtray.
“I don’t know what you’re going on like this for,” said Ethel, who probably knew very well. “A few bad weeks won’t kill you.”
Mr.¬ÝRidvers made a large gesture of despair. ‚ÄúOh, have a bit of sense, Ethel. Won‚Äôt kill me! I don‚Äôt know what you sit there for, I honestly don‚Äôt.‚Äù
“Oh, don’t you?” cried Ethel, staring at him hard. “Well, I’m not always sitting here, am I, Mister Ridvers? Trying to turn me into a dummy or what?”
‚ÄúAll right, Ethel, easy, easy,‚Äù he replied, giving her shoulder a perfunctory pat, under which it squirmed. ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôve told you before. Farrow and his P.P.H. Syndicate,‚Äù he went on, with ferocious deliberation, ‚Äúare making me an offer for my three halls. You know that? All right then. That-offer-is-to-be-based-on-two-months‚Äô-returns-of-these-three-halls. The price is according. Or, if they don‚Äôt like the look of them, they won‚Äôt deal. They‚Äôll buy elsewhere. Or‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs a damn sight worse‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôll come here and build their own. And you know as well as I do what‚Äôs happened to our returns. And I ask you, who‚Äôd have thought a piebald, blink-eyed, bread-and-dripping little pierrot show, filling in time till it can get a pitch on the sands again, would have knocked ‚Äôem all silly here like that!‚Äù
‚ÄúI went out to Mundley last night to see them,‚Äù said Ethel. ‚ÄúFellow took me. Packed out they were too. It‚Äôs a clever show‚ÅÝ‚Äîbit slow in parts, ‚Äôspecially the women, but it‚Äôs clever. They‚Äôve a boy there who dances‚ÅÝ‚Äîname‚Äôs Jerningham‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho got me all right. Talk about dancing! And looks! He‚Äôs got the film fellows well beaten, that boy has. Tricky songs too.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre sillier than I thought you were,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRidvers growled. ‚ÄúWith your dancing boys! They‚Äôve another week at Mundley Rink, haven‚Äôt they, after this? And then back to Gatford here again. I see they‚Äôve got the Hippodrome plastered with bills already. And I went to Billy Roberts and told him I didn‚Äôt want ‚Äôem back if possible and he owed me a good turn or two and he said he‚Äôd stiffen the terms‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey hadn‚Äôt taken it again then, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîand make this woman who‚Äôs running the show rent it and shove all sorts of responsibility on to her. But that‚Äôs not frightened her, seemingly.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhy should it?‚Äù said Ethel. ‚ÄúI know it wouldn‚Äôt frighten me. She‚Äôs safe as houses here now‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt lose.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝRidvers thought for a few moments. ‚ÄúHere,‚Äù he cried finally, ‚Äúwhere is this woman or whoever it is that‚Äôs running these ‚ÄòCompanions‚Äô or whatever they call themselves? Over at Mundley, I suppose?‚Äù
“No, she’s not. They’re all here, in Gatford, been staying here all the time and just running out to Stort and Mundley at night for the show. Her name’s Trant, and she’s staying at The Crown.”
‚ÄúYou seem to know a devil of a lot about them,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers, facing her across the table. ‚ÄúQuite one of the pierrot fanciers, aren‚Äôt you! Must be the dancing boy. Well, don‚Äôt start any tricks, that‚Äôs all.‚Äù
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt start tricks,‚Äù she replied shrilly. ‚ÄúAnd if I did, I wouldn‚Äôt ask your permission, Mr.¬ÝCharlie Ridvers. You get your money‚Äôs worth out of me, don‚Äôt you? Start tricks! You‚Äôre a nice one to talk.‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, dry up,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt you see I‚Äôve enough damn bother on my hands without you making trouble? I‚Äôm worried, that‚Äôs what I am, and I don‚Äôt mind admitting it.‚Äù He took down his hat and overcoat. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going across to The Crown to have a little bit of a talk to this pierrot woman‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs her name?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTrant. That‚Äôs what I‚Äôm going to do.‚Äù
“And a fat lot of good it’ll do you,” cried Ethel. “What can you say to her? Silly, I call it.”
“Never mind what you call it. And never mind what I can say to her,” he replied, with an air of a man who had produced a crushing retort. He had no idea himself what he could say to this Miss Trant that would be of the slightest use, but he looked both knowing and truculent. “What’s it now? Half past two? Back just after three, I dare say.” With his hand on the knob, he stopped, turned round and looked darkly at Ethel. “She’s going to hear something from me, good or no good.”
“Go on then, get it off your chest,” she replied. “Perhaps you’ll feel better after that.” She gave the typewriter carriage a push so that it shot across and rang its little bell, a contemptuous, dismissing little bell.
All the way down the stairs, Mr.¬ÝRidvers told himself that Ethel was getting altogether too uppish and was not much use in the office any longer and not very much use anywhere else the way she was these days, and that it was always the same if you allowed yourself to have a bit of fun with them because the little bitches took advantage in a minute and it was time he stopped having these little games. The wind was very lively as he walked up Victoria Street, and he damned it heartily. It whistled round his legs, tried to snatch his hat, flung scraps of waste paper at him, and made him feel liverish again. At The Crown he found he had to stop at the bar and add two more whiskies, very quick ones, to the supply he had taken in during his early lunch; but they did not make his grievances seem any less or restore his lost temper.
II
The Crown is the oldest and most comfortable hotel in The Triangle, and Miss Trant had stayed on there because she liked the place and had been able to claim the small sitting-room upstairs for her own use. She was in there now, talking to Inigo Jollifant, who had just had lunch with her. These two were now very good friends indeed, and Inigo had been giving her all the news of the troupe, for she had only just returned from a visit‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe first since autumn‚ÅÝ‚Äîto Hitherton. On the little table were a number of papers, rough accounts, and letters, that she had been looking over during the morning.
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what to do,‚Äù she was saying, raising her voice as the wind rattled the old window-frames. ‚ÄúTo tell you the truth, I haven‚Äôt been able to think properly since I came back. I feel‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you know?‚ÅÝ‚Äîrestless.‚Äù
‚ÄúMy own feelings, absolutely,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the wind, I think‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe wind on the heath, brother. Spring‚Äôs on the way, that must be it.‚Äù
“On the way!” she cried. “It’s here.”
“Not here,” he corrected her gravely. “Not in Gatford. There may be a spot of it somewhere on the edge of Mundley or Stort. But tell it not in Gatford.”
‚ÄúWell, it may not be here, but it‚Äôs everywhere else. You should see the flowers at Hitherton‚ÅÝ‚Äîalready.‚Äù
Inigo looked at her curiously. ‚ÄúShall I tell you what I think? I think you‚Äôre tired of it‚ÅÝ‚Äînot of us‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Certainly not of you,” she interrupted. “None of you.”
“No, not of us, as people, but of the business itself. I suspect you’ve had enough now.”
Miss Trant laughed, quickly, nervously. ‚ÄúAnd I was thinking just the same about you all through lunch‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very same thing‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat you were tired of it but would not admit it.‚Äù
“The two ama-chewers, eh! Had enough!” He thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say I’ve definitely felt that, not quite that.” He hesitated.
‚ÄúSuppose‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she held him with a level glance‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúSusie left us?‚Äù The instant look of horror on his expressive face brought a smile to her own. ‚ÄúThere you are, you see,‚Äù she cried in friendly triumph.
‚ÄúAs a matter of fact,‚Äù he remarked, serious now, ‚ÄúSusie herself is rather restless. And she doesn‚Äôt seem to be particularly keen on this Bournemouth offer. None of the younger ones are, you know. Jerningham seems uneasy about it, and Elsie‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho you would think would jump at it‚ÅÝ‚Äîdoesn‚Äôt seem very interested. As I told you, it‚Äôs the old hands, Jimmy and the Joes and Mitcham, who are all for it and so worried because you won‚Äôt decide at once. They think it‚Äôs a marvellous offer, absolutely, and so it is from their point of view‚ÅÝ‚Äîresident season, guaranteed and all the rest of it. All their dreams come true.‚Äù
“I know, poor dears. It’s just what they’ve been wanting. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t accept it. After all, I needn’t be there, not all the time, need I?”
“Not at all. You can take the whole summer off, if you like.”
“But really I don’t like. That’s the trouble. Please don’t tell the others this, will you? But somehow the idea of going there, just settling down in Bournemouth for nearly six months doesn’t appeal to me, and on the other hand, I don’t just want to march off, though of course if they thought they could get on without me, I could leave altogether.”
‚ÄúOh, don‚Äôt do that,‚Äù cried Inigo, alarmed. ‚ÄúBesides, although we must be making money now‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite a lot, I imagine‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt have got back all you‚Äôve spent yet.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, I haven‚Äôt,‚Äù she admitted, with an involuntary glance at the papers on the table. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre doing so wonderfully well here that there really is good profit, so good that I feel like a bloated profiteer and capitalist, but actually I‚Äôm still about two hundred pounds to the bad. And the people who have taken my house at Hitherton now say that all kinds of things must be done to it‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs very old, you know, and has been rather neglected, and apparently I must do them and I shudder to think what it will cost.‚Äù
“Well, there you are then. You must carry on and rake in the dibs, shekels, or boodle. We can’t allow you to retire still losing on the show.”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to retire,‚Äù she told him emphatically. ‚ÄúI should hate to. It‚Äôs just that‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, like you‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI feel restless and don‚Äôt know what to do.‚Äù
“I rather think that Jimmy and Mitcham and possibly Joe, the anxious lads, are downstairs in the bar, in the hope of getting the latest bulletin or ultimatum. I rather think so.” Inigo concluded lightly.
“Oh dear!” Miss Trant stared at him. “I know they’re dreadfully anxious about the Bournemouth business. Inigo, will you please slip down and tell them to wait a little longer because I may want to see them? I can’t see them this minute though because I must make up my mind first. I hope waiting down there doesn’t mean having a lot of drinks.”
“It does,” replied Inigo gravely. “Always. And more especially at a crisis, when the beverages come to hand almost mechanically. However, I’ll slip down and tell them.” He went out but almost immediately afterwards popped his head in the door. “A gent to see you,” he announced. “Name of Ridvers and smell of whisky. Will you have a look at him?”
Miss Trant, surprised, said she would, and the next moment Inigo had gone and a heavy man, of a somewhat swollen and purplish cast of countenance, was standing in the doorway. His bowler hat was tilted towards the back of his head and he had a cigar in his mouth. He came in without removing either hat or cigar.
“I am Miss Trant,” rising and regarding him with no great favour. “Do you want to see me?”
“That’s it. My name’s Ridvers, and I don’t mind telling you I’m the Triangle New Era Cinema Company, Unlimited. Well known here, very well known, not a stranger to the district.” He paused, looked at her, then took out a cigar and looked at that, shooting a little cloud of smoke at his companion.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Miss Trant, stepping back from the smoke.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre Miss Trant who‚Äôs running these what‚Äôs it Companions pierrot show, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers heavily.
“Yes. What do you want?” And she looked pointedly first at the hat, then at the cigar, then at the whole man.
But Mr.¬ÝRidvers was not to be hurried. His manner said very plainly that he had his own methods of approach to a topic. He pursed up his thick lips, stuck the cigar between them again, half-closed his eyes and wagged his head, and then growled through the cigar: ‚ÄúDoing damn well here, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Trant looked at him in amazement.
“Not-at-all, not-at-all.” He rested himself against the back of a high chair, took out his cigar, stared at her, and said again: “Doing damn well here, aren’t you?”
Miss Trant still stared.
‚ÄúAnd do you know‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here Mr.¬ÝRidvers used his cigar as a pointer and contrived to spill some ash over the chair‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúat whose expense you‚Äôre doing so damn well? At mine. And I‚Äôm here to have a little talk about it.‚Äù
“I don’t want to have a talk about it,” she cried.
“P’raps not. But I do.” He made movements that suggested he was about to sit down.
This was too much for Miss Trant. ‚ÄúWill you please go away at once?‚Äù she suddenly blazed at him, much to his astonishment. ‚ÄúHow dare you come in here behaving like this! I don‚Äôt want to talk to you about anything.‚Äù She turned her back on him and opened the window, instantly admitting a cold and disturbing rush of our old acquaintance, the March wind, which at once determined to try and choke Mr.¬ÝRidvers, with his own cigar smoke.
He coughed, spluttered, and cursed. But he was really shocked, for he had his own code of manners and now they had been outraged.
“I hope you don’t call yourself a lady,” he exclaimed, in genuine indignation. “What’s the idea? Going on like that!”
Miss Trant swept round, marched past him to the door and threw it open. “Now will you please go?” she said, white with annoyance. “If you don’t go, I will, and I shall ask the proprietor to turn you out of my room.”
Mr.¬ÝRidvers advanced and looked closely at her for a moment. Then he gave his hat a tap to bring it forward, made a clicking noise, exclaimed ‚ÄúWell, my God!‚Äù and went click-clicking down the corridor. When he reached the bar again, he was in a very bad temper. Tom Ellis himself, the landlord, was there, talking to two strangers, a long thin oldish fellow in a ridiculous overcoat and a short man with a peering monkey face.
‚ÄúLet‚Äôs have another, Tom,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers gruffly. ‚ÄúI need it.‚Äù Then, after swallowing half his whisky, he burst out with: ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a bitch of a woman you‚Äôve got upstairs, Tom.‚Äù
“Who’s this you’re talking about, Charlie?”
‚ÄúTrant or whatever her name is,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers heartily. ‚ÄúRunning a pierrot show here, till the sands are ready again, I suppose. Hello, what‚Äôs the matter with you?‚Äù Tom was nodding and winking at him.
“These two gentlemen here,” said Tom, whose business it was to keep in with everybody, “are members of that troupe. Very good show, they tell me.”
‚ÄúAnd let me tell you, sir,‚Äù said the taller stranger, who is no stranger to us, being no other than Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs no way to talk about a lady in public.‚Äù And his eyebrows completed the rebuke.
‚ÄúThat is so,‚Äù said his companion, Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn, sternly, and shutting one eye as he looked at Mr.¬ÝRidvers. ‚ÄúJust keep your bitches to yourself.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝRidvers gave a short laugh and cast a contemptuous eye over the rickety pair. ‚ÄúSo this is what they‚Äôre all paying their money to see, is it, Tom? Tut‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët. Broken-down old pros. Buskers. I wish I‚Äôd known what they looked like when I saw that woman upstairs. She‚Äôs not all there, Tom.‚Äù He tapped his forehead. ‚ÄúYou want to keep an eye on her. Pierrots! Tut‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët.‚Äù
‚ÄúWho is this‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîgentleman?‚Äù And the irony Mr.¬ÝMitcham, raising his eyebrows to a monstrous height, threw into that last word was stunning.
‚ÄúNow then, gentlemen,‚Äù said Tom. ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs be friendly. This is Mr.¬ÝRidvers who runs the cinemas round here.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham significantly, looking at Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúWhat are you ah-ing about?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝRidvers truculently.
‚ÄúDo you remember that ninepence we threw away the other afternoon in that dirty little place, Nunn?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham inquired.
“And we wondered how people could pay money to go in,” replied Jimmy. “Is that the place? And you thought it was raining in all the pictures, they were so old.”
“And you were asking me how the management had the face to have that cracked old piano and a girl to play it who’d never had any lessons. That’s the place, isn’t it, Nunn? Yes, I thought so.” He sighed deeply.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre very funny, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers, looking from one to the other very fiercely. ‚ÄúBut don‚Äôt think I‚Äôm going to take it from you because I‚Äôm not.‚Äù He did not say from whom he would take it, but there was a suggestion that he had taken it from somebody quite recently. ‚ÄúCouple of buskers! Going round with the hat! Dirty pierrots! Let me tell you this, the pair of you, and you can tell that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Easy, Charlie, easy,” said the landlord, who looked anything but easy himself.
‚ÄúYou want a good mouth-wash,‚Äù cried Jimmy angrily to Mr.¬ÝRidvers. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs asking for a good clean-out, that big mouth of yours.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve been in places where you‚Äôd have had a bullet through you‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike that‚ÅÝ‚Äîzip!‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor saying less than you‚Äôve said about a lady.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝMitcham, drawing the Silver King round him with a noble gesture of scorn, attempted to wither the furious cinema proprietor with one magnificent glance.
‚ÄúGo and have a look at yourselves,‚Äù roared Mr.¬ÝRidvers, at the same time attempting to have a closer look at them himself, a movement that made them back a little, for Mr.¬ÝRidvers, with his heavy shoulders and great thrusting jowl, was at that moment a very formidable figure. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll say what I like, and you won‚Äôt stop me and you know you won‚Äôt. Do you see? I‚Äôll say what I like.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the way, Mister,‚Äù said a cheerful voice from behind them. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the way to talk. Let a man say what he likes, that‚Äôs my motto‚ÅÝ‚Äîs‚Äôlong as he doesn‚Äôt hurt anybody. Morning, boys. Any news? Hello, what‚Äôs up?‚Äù
“I’ll tell you what’s up, Joe,” said Jimmy in tones that did not conceal his relief. And he plucked Joe by the elbow and in two whispered sentences told him what had happened.
The massive Joe then stepped forward and examined Mr.¬ÝRidvers curiously, as if there stood before him some new kind of creature.
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝRidvers, standing his ground but not looking as if he was certain of it, ‚Äúwhat‚Äôs wrong with you?‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what‚Äôs wrong with me,‚Äù said Joe softly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm a pierrot, same as these two. A dirty little pierrot. A broken-down pro. Just the same. Miss Trant, the lady upstairs, pays me my money. Just the same. Now I‚Äôll tell you what‚Äôs the matter with you. You‚Äôve two names. One‚Äôs Mud and the other‚Äôs Walker.‚Äù He jerked an enormous thumb towards the door. ‚ÄúOff! Outside! You‚Äôve just time. Oh!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here Joe wagged his head wistfully and a certain rapturous note crept into his voice‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI could give you such a slugging. You‚Äôre just the right shape and size, you are.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝRidvers had reached this conclusion even before Joe announced it. He departed. He ought to have stopped when he reached the door, turned round, scowled at them all, and produced the sinister laugh, the old hollow ‚ÄúHa! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!‚Äù; and indeed it is a pity he cannot be brought in every other page or so now to give us a warning ‚ÄúHa! Ha!‚Äù; but the fact remains that he went without a backward glance and in complete silence. He was, however, at boiling point, and a theatrical scowl, a little fist-shaking, and thirty seconds‚Äô sinister mirth, would have done him good. In Victoria Street the wind welcomed him boisterously as an old playmate, but his only response was to demand that it should first be damned and afterwards blasted. And when Ethel asked him if any good had come of his little talk, his reply was of such a nature that her typewriter was heard no more that day in the office of the Triangle New Era Cinema Company.
III
Mrs.¬ÝJoe put down her cup, then cocked her head in order, it seemed, to give her full attention to the wind. ‚ÄúJust listen to that, my dear,‚Äù she remarked complacently, rather as if she had shares in some company that manufactured March weather. ‚ÄúWild, I call it. March came in like a lion and it seems to be going on like one. That makes it all the nicer to be in here, doesn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
Susie, who was sitting in an enormous chair, specially introduced into that room for the benefit of Joe, curled her legs underneath her and snuggled down. “Couldn’t be nicer,” she said lazily. “I love it when it’s rotten outside and I’m not there and haven’t to be there for an hour or two. It makes railway carriages cosier, even.” And she rubbed her cheek against the side of the chair.
‚ÄúWhen Joe went out to see if there was any news,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe continued, ‚ÄúI was saying to myself I could just do with a nice little chat. I must get my work.‚Äù Having found a complicated and very untidy piece of knitting, bright pink in hue, she beamed across the hearth at her visitor, then settled herself in her chair, and looked cosy and confidential yet still majestic, like a queen off duty.
‚ÄúNow this is really nice,‚Äù she exclaimed. ‚ÄúYou know, if only George was here and in rather better health than he was at Christmas‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou remember he was not at all well then, though Clara says he is all right now‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you know what I should call myself?‚Äù
Susie from the depths of her chair replied that she didn’t.
‚ÄúStop!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe in a startling and dramatic fashion, at the same time sitting bolt upright. ‚ÄúStop! I‚Äôve no right to ask for Everything. I don‚Äôt say‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI won‚Äôt say‚ÅÝ‚Äîif only George was here. I‚Äôll say this. Do you know what I call myself now? I call myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor once‚ÅÝ‚Äîa Happy Woman.‚Äù She looked triumphantly at Susie and then looked severely at her knitting and shook it a little, just as if it was about to interrupt with some impudent remark.
“You like it here, don’t you?” said Susie.
‚ÄúTo be quite honest with you, my dear, I do. It suits me,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝJoe with decision, ‚Äúdown to the ground. I dare say I can do my share of grumbling. If Things aren‚Äôt going well, I face the fact and ask others to do the same. When they do go well, I say so. Just now it would be a sin to grumble, it really would.‚Äù
“But I’m not grumbling,” Susie protested.
‚ÄúQuite so. Here we are, nice and cosy together, having our little chat in front of a fire, a good fire, a most liberal fire I call it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“They’re jolly good about fires round here, aren’t they?”
‚ÄúI can say that for mine, Mrs.¬ÝPennyfeather,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe with judicial enthusiasm. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôd never stoop so low as to send in about four pieces and a shovelful of dust and call that a shilling scuttle. Most liberal in the matter of coal. Well, here we are, listening to the wind blowing outside and not caring about it at all, and knowing that tonight we‚Äôll have a good audience, an appreciative audience, out at Stundley or Gort or wherever it is we‚Äôre playing this week. Yes, Mundley, of course. That‚Äôs the one, isn‚Äôt it‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe one where the trams go all round the funny dirty statue in the middle‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMundley? I find these three towns terribly confusing, don‚Äôt you? Though of course as Dates they couldn‚Äôt be better. And then such unusually good rooms these are too, aren‚Äôt they? Look at this one. Have you noticed the oil paintings?‚Äù
As nearly every bit of wall space was covered with brownish canvases, framed lavishly in gilt but mysterious and curiously cotton-woolly in their subjects, Susie could reply with truth that she had noticed the oil paintings. “I’ve been wondering for some time,” she said, peeping out of her chair to have another glance round at them, “what they’re about. They don’t seem to be about anything much, do they?”
‚ÄúThe work of Mrs.¬ÝPennyfeather‚Äôs uncle, I understand,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, whose tones now took on a certain new dignity, befitting the tenant of such a room and art gallery. ‚ÄúAn amateur‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was a seedsman or ironmonger, I forget which‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut very gifted and quite up to professional standard. Above it in some ways, I think.‚Äù
‚ÄúI must say, Mrs.¬ÝJoe, they all look alike to me,‚Äù said Susie. ‚ÄúYet they don‚Äôt seem to have any sort of subject‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless it‚Äôs the inside of a mattress‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, one of those brown woolly ones‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs been trying to paint.‚Äù
‚ÄúMoors and Glens, I believe, were his favourite subjects,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúHe seems to have been fond of Highland scenery, though Mrs.¬ÝPennyfeather tells me he was never up there. We once played Aberdeen and Inverness and saw just the same kind of scenery through the carriage window, in the train, you know, not quite so brown perhaps and not so many deers and stags about, but very like. You must admit, my dear, they give the room a Tone. It‚Äôs a relief to me after so many calendars and photographs of Oddfellows and that class of thing. A woman who‚Äôs gone to so much expense and trouble with a Home so rarely lets. Now where would you find a nicer room to sit in than this? As a matter of fact‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe dropped her voice‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI know they‚Äôre still paying off on that chair you‚Äôre sitting in and the oak table there and the bookcase behind you, she practically told me so, the other day. And you know how Joe is set on having a Home of Our Own‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, put him in that chair, let him take a look round this room, and you can‚Äôt drag him away from the subject. ‚ÄòOh, for a Home of Our Own!‚Äô You should hear him go on about it. Though I must say, things being as they are and our work what it is, how we should get a Home of Our Own and what we should do with it when we have got it, I don‚Äôt know, and if he does, then he doesn‚Äôt tell me. Men never really think at all, as you‚Äôll find out for yourself one of these days, my dear.‚Äù
“I’ve done all the finding out about them I’m going to do,” Susie announced very promptly.
‚ÄúThat I cannot believe,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe retorted, ‚Äúor I should be sorry for you. But you must agree with me that if you‚Äôre lucky with rooms, the next best thing to having a Home is playing a resident season. Now we‚Äôve been lucky with the rooms here, and this is practically a resident season, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
‚ÄúResident‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith tram rides,‚Äù replied Susie. ‚ÄúThough I usually go out to Mundley by bus.‚Äù
‚ÄúWith Tram Rides or Bus, certainly,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe quite solemnly. ‚ÄúBut staying on in the same rooms makes it resident, I think, dear. Though of course compared with a whole summer season at Bournemouth, this is nothing. When I heard of that offer,‚Äù she continued, more animated now, ‚Äúthe moment I heard of it, Susie, I said to Joe ‚ÄòThe Luck has completely changed. We‚Äôre made.‚Äô And he agreed, though he says Bournemouth‚Äôs not quite his style. Which is ridiculous of course but you know how Joe will pretend to be so rough and ready. ‚ÄòA big town,‚Äô I told him. ‚ÄòA town with Tone and Taste‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Money of course. Five months at least guaranteed. It‚Äôs a Miracle.‚Äô If you‚Äôd gone round the coast and told me you were trying to find a place for a resident season, I should have told you without the slightest hesitation‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄòBournemouth, by all means,‚Äô I should have said at once. And Bournemouth now it is. But nothing so far seems to have been done about it, nothing. I hope there‚Äôs no haggling about terms. Now that we are getting on, we mustn‚Äôt be greedy. Surely the Bournemouth people wouldn‚Äôt haggle?‚Äù
“The terms are quite good,” said Susie indifferently.
‚ÄúThen they should be wired‚ÅÝ‚Äîat once.‚Äù
“Yes, I suppose so,” Susie continued, staring into the fire. “I suppose we ought to think ourselves lucky.”
‚ÄúUndoubtedly. Remember Rawsley, where Miss Trant found us,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe earnestly. ‚ÄúBear that horrible place in mind, my dear.‚Äù
‚ÄúI know. Only six months ago too. Oh, I‚Äôve thought about all that.‚Äù Susie shook herself out of the chair, leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece, and tapped the fender with one foot. ‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs a marvellous offer‚ÅÝ‚Äîa plum‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe sort that C.P. people are always telling you they‚Äôre getting and somehow weren‚Äôt able to accept‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe liars? But‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI feel a bit of a pig about this‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe wheeled round swiftly, facing her companion‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúOh, Mrs.¬ÝJoe, I don‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI really, honestly don‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîwant to spend the whole summer in C.P. work at Bournemouth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Just what I said to Joe about you,” the other cried in mournful triumph. “ ‘Susie doesn’t want to,’ I told him. I saw it at once. He didn’t of course, but then he never notices anything, never. Now why don’t you? Tell me.”
Susie moved her shoulders impatiently and pouted down at the fire. ‚ÄúEverybody‚Äôs beginning to tell me I‚Äôm restless, and it‚Äôs true, I am. The weather, I suppose‚ÅÝ‚Äîbit of nerves‚ÅÝ‚Äîswelled head, if you like. I‚Äôve had too many good audiences this year, all of a sudden‚ÅÝ‚Äînot good for the little girl. Now she doesn‚Äôt know when she‚Äôs well off.‚Äù She laughed, rather bitterly.
Mrs.¬ÝJoe was maternal. ‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt be foolish, Susie. Nobody is saying anything about you.‚Äù
‚ÄúI wouldn‚Äôt care if they were,‚Äù cried Susie wildly. ‚ÄúIt isn‚Äôt that. I suppose I‚Äôm always thinking something absolutely marvellous is going to turn up, and then when you all come along and say ‚ÄòHooray! Six months in Bournemouth! Susie will continue to sing Number Twenty-seven on the programme! Twice daily! Outside in the afternoon, but if wet in the shelter! Bring the children!‚Äô then I see the same old stick-in-the-mud business going on and on, and I think‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh hell!‚Äù
‚ÄúNot hell!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe reproachfully.
‚ÄúYes‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHell!‚Äù Susie repeated, ready now either to laugh or to cry. ‚ÄúI just see myself stuck there. With those three numbers of Inigo‚Äôs, I could go anywhere, anywhere. They‚Äôre too good for concert-party audiences.‚Äù
‚ÄúNot too good,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúbut in a different style perhaps.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. I didn‚Äôt mean too good really, but not what they want. Anyhow‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She stopped suddenly. ‚ÄúOh, I am a fool. I‚Äôd forgotten what I slipped in to tell you. About Coral Crawford. Now this is what gets my goat, and you can‚Äôt blame me. I brought the paper and put it down somewhere. Here we are. Now,‚Äù she went on sternly, ‚Äúyou remember Coral Crawford, don‚Äôt you? She was with the Larks and Owls Company with you, and left just after I joined, didn‚Äôt she?‚Äù
“I should think I do remember her. Coral Crawford. One of the most outrageous Borrowers I ever shared a dressing-room with.”
“Well, then,” cried Susie, “what did you think of her, honestly?”
Mrs.¬ÝJoe replied as if she were giving a reference: ‚ÄúAs a turn, hopeless. As a companion, a fellow-performer, a lady, no better, being deceitful, untrustworthy, given to lying, to say nothing of borrowing everything that could possibly be borrowed and some things that a self-respecting girl would never dream of wanting from anybody else, and never returning anything without being asked times without number.‚Äù She leaned back and added: ‚ÄúWhat about her?‚Äù
‚ÄúYou remember she said she was fed up with C.P. work and left us to try and get into the chorus?‚Äù said Susie breathlessly. ‚ÄúShe got in. I‚Äôve never heard of her since‚ÅÝ‚Äîuntil this morning. Now read this.‚Äù And she stuck the folded newspaper under her companion‚Äôs nose. ‚ÄúStarring‚ÅÝ‚Äîstarring, mind you‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a new show at the Pall Mall! Doesn‚Äôt it make you want to scream? Coral Crawford! Read it. Playing with Tommy Mawson and Leslie Wate and Virginia Washington! Great success! Should run forever! Look what they say about the show! Coral Crawford! Bang at the top! I‚Äôm not jealous, honestly I‚Äôm not‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs nice seeing people you know getting there‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that girl‚ÅÝ‚Äîa star at the Pall Mall already! Help! When I read that this morning in bed I could feel myself going hot and cold and pink and yellow all at once. I wanted to gnaw the sheets and blankets, I really did.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, well!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe still stared at the paper. ‚ÄúOf course the girl may have improved a lot since we knew her. I‚Äôve known it happen in the most surprising way,‚Äù she said dubiously.
‚ÄúOch‚ÅÝ‚Äîtripe! Not possible. Improved! She‚Äôd nothing to improve. There wasn‚Äôt anything there. Anyhow, there she is‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCoral Crawford‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCrawly‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the Pall Mall, and here I am, taking the tram out to Mundley every night to sing Number Thirty-three on the programme! Isn‚Äôt it enough to make you sick? And then you talk to me about six months in Bournemouth, jogging on through the same old show! I know‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI know‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI oughtn‚Äôt to grumble‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm not grumbling. Miss Trant‚Äôs an angel‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôre all angels‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I suppose I ought to shut up. But there you are. And now do you understand?‚Äù
‚ÄúYou think this isn‚Äôt good enough for you?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe softly, staring at the fire.
“I don’t mean exactly that,” Susie was penitent. “I don’t, really.”
“Yes, you do,” the other replied, quite gently. Her hands were still now, resting idly on her knitting, that knitting which might go on and on, from town to town, and be taken into dressing-rooms and railway carriages and all manner of strange lodgings, and grow more and more complicated and shapeless and useless until at last it would disappear and never be heard of again. “And you’re right,” she added, in quite a different tone of voice. “You are too good, Susie. I used to think I was.” This was slipped in wistfully.
“And so you are,” said Susie stoutly. “Miles and miles.”
‚ÄúDo you think so, really?‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe, brightening at once. ‚ÄúWell of course when I‚Äôm in voice, there‚Äôs no doubt I am. It‚Äôs the delicacy of my voice that kept me out of big work. And after all good training and long experience, Taste and Interpretation‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey must count for something, mustn‚Äôt they?‚Äù
“Course they must, you absurd thing!”
“What you want, what you’re pining for, Susie, is a big Chance. That’s why you’re restless. I know, my dear. Well keep on quietly, doing your best, and it’ll come, that’s what I say. I don’t say how or where it’ll come because I don’t know, but come it will. I feel it. And still very young, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Susie gloomily, “though at times I feel a thousand, I can tell you. And telling yourself how young you are doesn’t seem to make much difference if you’re not satisfied. Every time I hear about anybody in the profession suddenly doing so marvellously, like Crawly, I always try and find out their ages. So does Jerry, I discovered the other day. He’s pretty poisonous, of course, but he does understand about things like that. Jerry’ll get there soon, if it kills him.”
‚ÄúYour Chance might arrive,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúat Bournemouth. That wouldn‚Äôt surprise me.‚Äù
“It would me. Unless you mean six nights at the local Picture Palace. Bournemouth! Pooh!”
‚ÄúAgain, it might arrive here,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe went on impressively, ‚Äúin Gatford‚ÅÝ‚Äîor even Gort‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean Stort, or Mundley. Yes, you can laugh, my dear, but I say it might. I‚Äôve known it happen before and in far worse places, far, far worse‚ÅÝ‚Äîin Sheer Holes.‚Äù
“All right then, it might,” said Susie in tones that suggested the maximum of possible unbelief. “Let’s talk about something a bit more cheerful or I shall weep. Would you like the latest about Elsie and her Pink Egg?”
‚ÄúHer what?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe was startled.
‚ÄúWell, he looks exactly like one. You‚Äôve seen him, haven‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe great gentleman friend. She thinks about nothing else now. Sees him every day, nearly. D‚Äôyou know what she‚Äôs gone and done?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbought a new winter coat‚ÅÝ‚Äînow! When he first popped up with his little car, she rushed off and bought a new jumper suit. You‚Äôve seen it? Well, she tried going out with him in that and of course she was frozen stiff every time, leaving her old coat at home. So the other day she rushed round the shops and bought a new coat. And now she‚Äôs so broke, broke to the world, she‚Äôll never have a thing for summer. And all for Mr.¬ÝHerbert‚ÅÝ‚Äîotherwise Bert‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDulver, otherwise Pink Egg.‚Äù
‚ÄúI wondered,‚Äù mused Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs why she‚Äôs not bothering about future dates.‚Äù
“Can’t think of anything but Egg or Pink Un.”
“It sounds to me like Touch-and-Go. She never had her heart in the Profession. Do you think she’ll manage it this time?”
“She hasn’t said much,” replied Susie, “but it looks to me as if she’s hoping to bring him to the boil.”
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs no Egg, my dear, if she can‚Äôt,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, majestically coy.
‚ÄúBut what a life if she does!‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúI ask you! Mrs.¬ÝPink Egg! Just imagine‚ÅÝ‚Äîall your hopes on that! Horrors! I‚Äôd rather keep on, going to fifty Rawsleys, or having a resident season at Tewborough‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Mrs.¬ÝJoe shuddered. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt mention that Hole, please, my dear. Even to joke about it.‚Äù
“Yes, at Tewborough with a sniffy cold that never stops than be like poor Elsie. When I think of her Pink Egging it for all she’s worth, I swear I won’t ever grumble or feel so restless again.”
‚ÄúVery nice,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúbut you will.‚Äù
And of course she did.
IV
No one knew better than Miss Elsie Longstaff herself that, at that very moment, it was touch and go with the gentleman who has been somewhat unfairly introduced to us as Pink Egg. Mr.¬ÝHerbert Dulver was a gentleman friend of some two years‚Äô standing, though for the greater part of that time he had occupied a lowly place in the hierarchy of Elsie‚Äôs gentlemen friends. Indeed, there had been periods when he had been as completely out of mind as he was out of sight. Shortly after the Good Companions had arrived at The Triangle, however, Mr.¬ÝDulver had turned up again, for he was managing an hotel owned by his father, a substantial old place about fifteen miles out of Gatford and on the main London road. All the Dulvers‚ÅÝ‚Äîlarge, pink, and brassily cheerful persons‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere landlords or bookmakers of something convivial or sporting. Herbert had been managing an hotel at the seaside when Elsie had first made his acquaintance, and now, having acquired in a mysterious Dulverish manner a considerable sum of money, he proposed not only to manage but also to own another seaside hotel. He was a bachelor about forty who liked to clothe his pink plumpness in sporting tweeds, wore a fair clipped moustache, and looked at the world out of prominent light-blue eyes that had about them a kind of hard amiability. His manner and phraseology suggested the confidential, but his voice was loud and carried far and he made full use of it, so that he always gave the odd impression that he was bellowing out his innermost secrets. Actually, however, he had no difficulty in keeping to himself whatever was best known only to himself, and was in reality a far more astute man of business than he appeared to be, like all the Dulvers, who for several generations now had been ordering drinks all round and slapping everybody on the back and talking at the top of their voices while they quietly contrived to feather their nests. And this Mr.¬ÝDulver had the traditional attitude towards women. Outside business, in which he demanded and took care to receive his money‚Äôs worth, he was very chivalrous and gallant towards ‚Äúthe Ladies,‚Äù and both masterful and saucy with ‚Äúthe Girls.‚Äù Elsie, who liked being one of the Ladies and one of the Girls too, understood and appreciated both these attitudes, but that did not prevent her from telling herself from the first that Mr.¬ÝDulver would want watching. Not that this stood in his way at all, for in her heart of hearts Elsie admired a man who wanted watching.
Mr.¬ÝDulver had run her out in his little car to the hotel for lunch, and now they had stopped on the way back, at a spot on the side of the road where a mound of hill and a little copse sheltered them from the tearing wind. There they lit their cigarettes and Elsie waited expectantly. She knew only too well that Mr.¬ÝDulver had news for her and that this afternoon might decide everything. Miles of soft Midland landscape, brown fields, the glitter of water, the swirl of smoke, the grey distance, were spread before them, but she had no eyes for it all, for the real world had narrowed to those few square inches, pinker than ever, that represented the outward map of Mr.¬ÝDulver‚Äôs mind and where there might soon be seen the signals of victory or defeat.
“Well,” she cried, turning to look him full in the face and pouting a little, “aren’t you going to tell me? I’ve been thinking about how you were getting on down there all the weekend. Course, if you don’t want to tell, it doesn’t matter. I just wondered, that’s all.” Elsie was cleared for action. Every sentence now would be a well-aimed shot from a different turret.
‚ÄúI was waiting,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝDulver. ‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt want to say anything in there. Between you and me, I‚Äôm thinking of taking it.‚Äù
“You are?” she exclaimed in glad surprise, very much the bright, friendly, interested woman. “I’m glad, Bert; I really am.” Were her eyes shining, or were they just staring, bulging out, silly?
Bert looked pleased and important. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a good little house, twenty bedrooms‚ÅÝ‚Äîmight easily put in a few more, make an annex, easy. Good smoke-room and bar trade too, though it wants working up a bit. Summer‚Äôs money for dust, of course, but fair number staying in winter, specially weekends. Golf, y‚Äôknow, and fishing. Bang opposite the pier too‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Opposite the pier!” cried Elsie, reproachfully. “Don’t I know it is? Haven’t I played Eastbeach, year before last, and on the very pier? What’s the good of telling you anything, Bert? You never listen.” And she gave him a companionable tap.
“That’s right,” he said apologetically. “I’m that full of it, I’m forgetting you’ve been there, Elsie. Well, they want four thousand, lock, stock, and barrel, except the usual takeovers. As I say, it wants working up, mind you.”
“You could do that all right,” she told him.
“I could eat it,” he proclaimed. “I tell you, I like the look of it, like the town too. Not far from London, either. Good road. Run up now and again and see what’s doing.” He clicked his tongue appreciatively and looked doggish.
“You would!” cried Elsie, who knew her cues. “You leave London alone. Time you behaved yourself, if you ask me.”
“Something in that,” he admitted, “though we’ve all got to have a bit of fun, haven’t we?”
“That’s what I always tell them. We’re a long time dead, I say.”
He looked at her admiringly and the arm resting on the back of the seat behind her came a little closer. “You know what’s what and you’ve been to Eastbeach,” he said. “Honestly now, what d’you think of it, Elsie?”
“You don’t want to know what I think of it.”
“Don’t I? Well, what am I asking you for? Brought you out here to hear what you think about it. Come on, Elsie, let’s have it, straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Who are you calling a horse!”
‚ÄúNot you.‚Äù The arm was resting on her shoulders now. The little moustache came nearer. There was a kind of mistiness about Mr.¬ÝDulver as he gazed at this fair ripeness, which was exactly his taste in feminine charm.
Elsie averted the kiss that she knew would inevitably have descended upon her a moment later, but she did it easily and quietly by drawing away ever so little and suddenly looking serious, businesslike. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll tell you what I think about it, Bert, if you‚Äôll only be sensible for a minute,‚Äù she began; and thereupon told him why she approved of Eastbeach and the hotel there, showing him quite plainly, if he only had the sense to see it, that she was a girl with her wits about her who knew what the hotel business was, even if she did happen to be on the stage. And all the time her imagination, dizzy as it was, still explored the possibility. She saw herself in that hotel, Mrs.¬ÝDulver, telling the maids what to do; queening it for half an hour now and again in the saloon bar, hair always waved and good clothes; shopping in style‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúGood morning. Madam‚Äù; recognized by all the gentlemen in the town‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúGood afternoon, Mrs.¬ÝDulver‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîraising their hats; having a word with the girls who came to the pier pavilion‚ÅÝ‚Äînot standoffish or rubbing it in but still‚ÅÝ‚Äîpitying them; taking little trips to London with Bert in the car‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bigger one by this time; going round the shops and doing a show‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúused to be in the profession myself, once, my dear‚Äù; the whole rich future. And a word or two could make it hers. ‚ÄúOf course you know better than I do, Bert‚ÅÝ‚Äîa girl isn‚Äôt much of a judge of these things, though I know a bit more than most‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that‚Äôs my honest opinion. You go in and buy the place.‚Äù
‚ÄúGoing to,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDulver complacently. ‚ÄúDecided that first thing this morning, matter of fact, but just wanted to hear what you thought about it. And I‚Äôll tell you what it is, Elsie, old kid‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Old kid! What next!”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got it where it‚Äôs wanted,‚Äù he continued, tapping his forehead. ‚ÄúUsed to think you‚Äôd just got the looks and style and nothing else to it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Thank you, sir, she said,” cried Elsie. “Very good of you to admit the looks, I must say, Mister Dulver,” But she smiled at him very sweetly.
The arm tightened round her and the now amorous Bert tried to kiss her. To his surprise, however, for he had kissed her before she repulsed him, firmly if gently. “Hello! Hel‑low!” He drew back and looked at her. “We aren’t very matey today, are we? What have I done wrong?”
Knowing very well that the slightest chill would ruin all and yet realizing that now or never was the time when he must not have his own way too easily, Elsie felt as if she was walking on a tightrope. She smiled again; a little one this time, a bit mysterious. “You never do anything wrong, do you?” she remarked lightly. “But there isn’t anything wrong. Honestly, there isn’t. I’m enjoying myself. Aren’t you?” And she looked at him archly.
‚ÄúNot sure about that,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDulver muttered, not so certain of himself and everything else as he had been a few minutes before. ‚ÄúHere, though‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the arm tightened again‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwhat about‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúGoing home?‚Äù she put in quickly. It was a terrible risk. If he said‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she could almost hear him saying it already, in a flash‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúAll right, let‚Äôs go home then,‚Äù then it was all over. Awful!
‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to say something to you,‚Äù said Bert, severely and importantly. Bless him!‚ÅÝ‚Äîit didn‚Äôt matter now how severe and important he liked to sound. ‚ÄúHave you ever thought,‚Äù he continued with great deliberation, ‚Äúof abandoning your stage career? Wait a minute. I mean, to get married.‚Äù
“Oh, I’ve been proposed to a good few times, I don’t mind telling you,” cried Elsie, who didn’t mind telling him.
“No doubt. Suppose you were asked now, though?”
“Depends on who did the asking.”
“I’m doing the asking.”
“You try me.”
‚ÄúGo on then. What d‚Äôyou say? Coming to Eastbeach as Mrs.¬ÝDulver of the Black Horse?‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, Bert‚ÅÝ‚Äî! Are you sure‚ÅÝ‚Äî?‚Äù
“Shouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.”
Then Mr.¬ÝDulver found himself being kissed. Into that kiss went a whole captured ecstatic vision of the future and a glorious farewell to cheap lodgings, bad meals, old clothes, cramped dressing-rooms, bored audiences, and long Sundays in the train; and it took his breath away, almost frightened him. But not for long. Bert was delighted. He may have been a Dulver‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith something hard, brassy, behind those curving pink cheeks and prominent light-blue eyes‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut nevertheless he was a member of the sentimental sex, and now he moaned over her like any lovesick lad. He must be in the Eastbeach hotel before the season began, and they must be married before he went to Eastbeach, even if it would be a rush. To all of this Elsie gave an instant and rapturous assent.
Then her mind went racing through all the possibilities and complications. “But look here, Bert,” she said, looking very solemn, “if it’s going to be as soon as all that, it’ll be awkward.”
“Not it,” he replied masterfully, holding her tight. “You leave it to me. I’ll fix it. We’re used to these things in the hotel business.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, but‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was genuinely troubled now‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwell, I‚Äôve nothing ready, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, you might as well know‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm completely broke, will be for weeks.‚Äù
‚ÄúNothing in that. I knew you couldn‚Äôt have much, from what you said. I‚Äôll fix that too‚ÅÝ‚Äîstand all the exes. You tell me what you want. Might as well do it properly while we‚Äôre at it, what d‚Äôyou say?‚Äù
What could she say‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat were mere words‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen she saw him shining there like a god? But when the car was headed for Gatford again, she never stopped talking, and he listened with a proud air of proprietorship. At Mohen‚Äôs, the large jewellers‚Äô in Victoria Street, he pulled up, saying ‚ÄúThis is where you get the ring. Got to have a ring.‚Äù Seeing that their marriage was to take place almost at once, other men might have thought an engagement-ring unnecessary, but that was not the Dulvers‚Äô way; what there was to be done had to be done‚ÅÝ‚Äîin style. You never saw any Mrs.¬ÝDulver without her full complement of rings. And Elsie, who was undoubtedly a born Mrs.¬ÝDulver, admired her Bert all the more for this grand decision. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll have to come in,‚Äù he told her, ‚Äúto see what you fancy and try ‚Äôem on.‚Äù
“You go first, Bert,” she replied. “Have a look round.” She had no idea what he would care “to run to” in this matter of rings.
He disappeared into the shop, and she remained in the car for a moment, then got out, looking at the passersby with the assured stare of an engaged woman.
“Eh, I’ve been looking for you,” said a familiar voice.
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù She smiled upon him. She even smiled upon his companion, a thickset, bowlegged man, who wore an immense green cap.
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúMiss Trant wants you to bring that there red dress wi‚Äô thingumbobs on‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou knaw which it is‚ÅÝ‚Äîround to t‚Äôthe‚Äëater tonight.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll right,‚Äù replied Elsie indifferently. She had almost forgotten the existence of Miss Trant, the dress, and the theatre. ‚ÄúYou won‚Äôt see me in that much longer, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. I‚Äôm giving Miss Trant my notice tonight. I‚Äôm getting married‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite soon.‚Äù
‚ÄúNay, you don‚Äôt say!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWell, well! I did hear you were doing a bit o‚Äô courting in t‚Äôdistrict. I‚Äôve seen him, haven‚Äôt I? It‚Äôs t‚Äôchap as comes round for you, him i‚Äô flight suits as keeps pub somewhere, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
The chap himself put in an appearance at that very moment. ‚ÄúBert,‚Äù cried Elsie, ‚Äúthis is Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, our props man. I‚Äôve just been telling him.‚Äù
‚ÄúHope to see you at the wedding, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, drinking our health,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDulver affably.
‚ÄúGood enough! I‚Äôll be there,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd replied. ‚ÄúThis is a friend o‚Äô mine,‚Äù he added, rather proudly, indicating the thickset, bowlegged, green-capped one. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJock Campbell.‚Äù
‚ÄúHello! Know that name! Seen you before!‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDulver, who was very much at home in a situation of this kind. ‚ÄúSaw you last Saturday.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who appeared to think it was his duty to answer for his friend, apparently a very taciturn man. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôGainst Lincoln City here.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd played a good game too. If the forwards had only been as good as you backs,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDulver observed, ‚Äúthe Triangle would have walked away with it. But your forward line‚Äôs weak in my opinion.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝCampbell, after swaying uneasily, now cleared his throat, preparatory to bursting into speech. ‚ÄúOch!‚Äù he muttered, ‚Äúthey‚Äôre raw.‚Äù
“He means they’re nobbut young lads, new to t’game,” his interpreter explained. “Don’t you, Jock?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs about it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDulver heartily. ‚ÄúWell, pleased to have met you. Come in, Elsie. I bet you don‚Äôt know what we‚Äôre doing. Choosing the ring.‚Äù And he burst into a loud guffaw, which was answered by companionable if faint sardonic grins from Messrs. Oakroyd and Campbell, who both did something rather vague to their caps and then moved away.
When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had discovered that he was lodging in the very same street as, indeed next door but one to, the famous Jock Campbell, now left back and captain of the recently formed Triangle United A.F.C., and formerly of Glasgow Celtic, Sheffield Wednesday‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Bruddersford United‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was very excited. Had he not spent many and many a happy Saturday afternoon at the Bruddersford ground cheering Jock‚Äôs vast and miraculous clearance kicks? But when he also discovered that the great man was not only close at hand but was quite ready to make the acquaintance of an old admirer, to smoke a pipe with him, and take turn about paying for half-pints, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs excitement and gratification knew no bounds. Jock was forty now, and so a veteran, an ancient of days, among professional footballers; on the field he looked old, if only because he had met so many footballs with his head that he was almost completely bald in front; he was heavy and he was slow: but he was an unusually powerful man and his long experience, his guile, enabled him to play a good game even yet, so that though his best days, when fifty thousand spectators roared their approval at him, were over long ago, he was still an acquisition to such a junior club as the Triangle United. He had not been at Gatford long and was not a man to make friends easily, and it was not really surprising that he should take pleasure in Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs company. They had a common theme in Bruddersford, where Jock had lived several years; they were both separated from their wives; and they both had a detached taste for football and tobacco and beer and a deep philosophical interest in the chances and changes of this life, though the older of the two, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, was the more eager and romantic. Such idealism as Mr.¬ÝCampbell had, centred about public-houses: his one ambition now was to do what so many of his successful fellow-gladiators had done, to find a nice little public-house, not too far from a football ground, and turn himself into the landlord of it. A good benefit match might do it. For the rest, he was a man of vast but comfortable silences. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as we know, could hardly be called loquacious, but compared with his new friend he was a chatterbox.
‚ÄúYond‚Äôs pleased wi‚Äô hersen nar,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shouted, as they continued their walk down Victoria Street. He had to shout because the wind was making such a din. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs bin fair sick to get hersen off this long time‚ÅÝ‚Äîand nar she‚Äôs gone an‚Äô roped him in. An‚Äô it‚Äôll just suit her lahdidahing it a bit i‚Äô t‚Äôsaloon bar wi‚Äô all her best clothes on and her hair all frizzed up.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝCampbell.
‚ÄúNot a bad sort o‚Äô chap she‚Äôs gotten hold of,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd continued. ‚ÄúRight landlord style, did you notice?‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝCampbell. And then, two minutes afterwards he muttered something that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was now very clever at this kind of thing, interpreted to, mean that, in Mr.¬ÝCampbell‚Äôs opinion, Mr.¬ÝDulver was obviously in a big way of business and was not a man to serve pints himself.
They turned out of the main street into a quieter thoroughfare. Here Mr.¬ÝOakroyd chuckled. ‚ÄúPink Egg! That‚Äôs what Soosie‚ÅÝ‚Äîyoung lass o‚Äô troupe‚ÅÝ‚Äîcalls him,‚Äù he explained, ‚Äúand if you nobbut tak a good look at him he‚Äôs a bit like one, more still wi‚Äô his ‚Äôat off. Pink Egg! Eh, she‚Äôs droll.‚Äù
This shocked Mr.¬ÝCampbell into speech. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs no name that, man, to gie a landlord in a big way o‚Äô business,‚Äù he said solemnly.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, well acquainted with his companion‚Äôs great desire and respecting such an ambition, one for heroes, made no reply, and they covered the next two hundred yards or so in silence.
‚ÄúHoo‚Äôs the lass that‚Äôs awa‚Äô?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝCampbell suddenly inquired. He had heard all about Lily in Canada.
‚ÄúNay, I haven‚Äôt heard for a bit, not sin‚Äô I were telling yer,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúSeemingly she‚Äôs doing champion. Allus says so. But I‚Äôd like to see for mysen,‚Äù he added, a trifle wistfully.
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝCampbell. And then, growing reckless as a conversationalist, he said: ‚ÄúAn‚Äô the wife? Hoo‚Äôs she?‚Äù
“I can’t get to know owt. Neither she nor t’lad’ll say. I wrote nobbut t’other day an’ asked ’em right aht if she were poorly an’ if I could do owt. Eh, it’s damn silly going on like that! But it’s my wife all over.”
‚ÄúThey gae their ain gate.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝCampbell brought out from the depths of his own experience.
Nothing more was said until they reached Crimean Road, where they both lodged, and then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had been looking vaguely troubled, returned to the subject of Elsie and her marriage. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs one going o‚Äô t‚Äôowd lot,‚Äù he said, as if the Good Companions had been together for six years instead of six months. ‚ÄúNar it‚Äôs started, mark my word. Elsie‚Äôs nobbut t‚Äôfirst. More to foller, or I‚Äôm a Dutchman! Happen you‚Äôve noticed it yersen, Jock? Nowt changes at all for some time, and then‚ÅÝ‚Äîall of a sudden, afore you knaw where you are‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre going right and left, and it‚Äôs all to bits.‚Äù
‚ÄúMaybe.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝCampbell ventured.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm down o‚Äô this, I am an‚Äô all,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd went on. ‚ÄúI mun hear what t‚Äôothers has to say. There‚Äôs been a summat i‚Äô fair these two-three week.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, a sicht too much wind,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝCampbell gravely. And we will allow him to have the last word‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor once in his life.
II
A Chapter of Encounters
I
Elsie finished with the show on the last Saturday at Mundley, when she had been given a most successful Benefit Night, concluding with genuine tears and bouquets. Jimmy had already slipped down to Birmingham to interview and book her successor, Miss Mamie Potter. This first week of their return to the Gatford Hippodrome was going to be exciting. The new soubrette was due to arrive on Monday morning, to rehearse in the afternoon, to appear at night. Then on Wednesday there was Elsie‚Äôs wedding, which was to be celebrated out at the Dulver‚Äôs hotel on the London Road. They were all going and the bus had already been ordered. Then on Saturday there was to be another Grand Benefit Night‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou could see the bills plastered all over the town‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis time for Miss Susie Dean, our popular comedienne. Next Saturday was Susie‚Äôs twenty-first birthday. And she was giving a tea party first, and there was to be some sort of jollification, only vaguely outlined, as yet, after the show. Moreover, the Hippodrome would be packed out every night, as they all knew, with enthusiastic Gatfordians. Here was excitement enough for hardworking professionals. What a week!
Yet all was not well with them. The old members of the troupe, Jimmy and Mitcham and the Brundits, were still quietly in despair about the Bournemouth offer, not yet accepted. Miss Trant seemed so dreamy and remote these days that she was considered unapproachable for the time being. It was very odd, but there it was. Business was never better, and, on the other hand, nothing bolder had been attempted for years in the C.P. world than Miss Trant‚Äôs present venture, the renting of the Hippodrome, on stiff terms, with some nasty clauses slipped in; and yet‚ÅÝ‚Äîso fantastic is the sex, as Jimmy and Mr.¬ÝMitcham pointed out to one another‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe did not seem to be bothering her head about it at all. But then all the young people were rather queer. Jerry Jerningham was more aloof and mysterious than usual, and was thought to be up to something, though nobody knew what. In spite of birthday and benefit‚ÅÝ‚Äîor because of them‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSusie was still restless, rather snappy at times, and given to wriggling her pretty shoulders at people who asked the simplest and friendliest questions. She had snubbed poor Inigo so often lately that now he kept out of her way, stalked about with a new and purposeful air, and was understood to be hard at work revising the eight numbers he had written for them, which he called his Tripe √Ý la mode de Jazz‚ÅÝ‚Äîto the entire mystification of his friend, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Success had come at last, but all these young people seemed to be taking it the wrong way, which proved conclusively to Mr.¬ÝMitcham that young people were not what they were when he had been a young person.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was mystified by many things these days. He was as interested as any of the others in the events of the near future. In his own fashion he shared any excitement that was going. Nevertheless, he found himself brooding somewhat darkly on Canada and 51 Ogden Street and the destiny of the Good Companions. He had never been very fond of Elsie, but she was ‚Äúone o‚Äô t‚Äôowd lot,‚Äù and the fact that she was going and another taking her place troubled him more than it did any of the others. Perhaps he alone, from out of the depths of his philosophy of Sudden Change, felt that this coming week would take them all much further than they ever imagined, that the exciting plans they had made for it were nothing compared with some other plans already being laid down for them by the old powers, the conspiracy of the wind and the stars. The thread we saw dangling before him‚ÅÝ‚Äîso long ago, it seems!‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he walked up Manchester Road, Bruddersford, after the match, that thread, its colour changing, deepening, is now running faster and faster; and perhaps he has heard‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a dream, through some Old Salt reverie‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe rattle of its winding spool.
The first thing that happened, of course, was Miss Mamie Potter. Jimmy had said that she was young but experienced, had no voice to speak of but danced well, and would do. When pressed more closely, he always pointed out that people who were in a hurry could not pick and choose as long as they liked, and that for his part he did not pretend to be able to work miracles. There was thought to be something queer, fishy, about this. The arrival, the rehearsal, the appearance on the stage, of Miss Potter soon settled the question. Jimmy had no good solid reason for not engaging her, and so he had engaged her, but some instinct must have warned him that all was not well. On the stage she was adequate enough; as a matter of fact she was better than Elsie had ever been. But off the stage, Miss Mamie Potter was insufferable. Within less than twelve hours of her first arrival at Gatford station, she had put all their backs up; and it was clear that she was indeed a born putter-up of backs.
Miss Potter had a sleek, almost electroplated, blonde head; no eyebrows; very round blue eyes; a button of a nose, so small and heavily powdered that it resembled the chalked end of a billiard cue; and a mouth that was a perpetual crimson circle of faint astonishment. The upper half of her, her neck and shoulders and the thin arms ending so curiously in little dumpy hands, was poor; but her legs were really beautiful. It was as if she were being carried about by two fine sonnets. Those two exquisite, twinkling silky calves of hers seemed to be always making charmingly witty and impudent comments on the world. If she had never done anything but walk a little way in front of depressed males, she would have been a notable public benefactor, distributing a sense of the joy of life. Unfortunately, she talked; and she talked in a kind of idle, staring voice, and the result was havoc. Her perpetual opening “I say” was very soon a storm signal.
‚ÄúI say,‚Äù she said to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, after she had known him about quarter of an hour, ‚Äúyou seem to get a lot of your own way here, don‚Äôt you? You‚Äôre only the props, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd regarded her with astonishment and rubbed his chin hard. ‚ÄúAy, that‚Äôs all,‚Äù he replied finally. ‚ÄúNobbut a sort o‚Äô dog like. Just let me knaw if you hear me speaking out o‚Äô my turn. You mun just set us right as you go on. We knaw nowt.‚Äù This speech might have puzzled and possibly quietened some people, but Miss Potter merely gave it a little condescending nod and then strolled away. ‚ÄúI say,‚Äù she said to the horrified Morton Mitcham, ‚Äúsome of those card tricks of yours are pretty ancient, aren‚Äôt they?‚Äù Equally ancient, in her opinion, were Jimmy‚Äôs gags and Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs ballads. ‚ÄúI say,‚Äù she remarked to Susie, ‚Äúyou seem to go down here very well, but they‚Äôre letting you dig an awfully big hole in the programme, aren‚Äôt they?‚Äù This was after the show on Monday night. It had been a rather queer performance. The house was crowded and as generally enthusiastic as ever, but from somewhere at the back of the pit (which was the cheapest part of the house, there being no gallery at the Hippodrome) there had come, at odd times, various loud jeers and hootings and catcalls, obviously resented by most people in the audience, though now and then raising a laugh. This had never happened before, and they were all talking about it after the show. The furious Susie told Mrs.¬ÝJoe that it must be Mamie Potter, but this did not satisfy Mrs.¬ÝJoe or anybody else, not even Susie herself.
On Tuesday morning, the wind had dropped to a mild breeze and a little watery sunshine crept over the Midlands. Miss Trant, still unsettled by her visit to Hitherton, still haunted by the daffodils and the bursting crocuses of the Cottage garden, decided that she must have some light and air, and so took Susie and some sandwiches for a run in the car.
“It’s heavenly to see the country again,” cried Miss Trant, when they had left the car factories and the Triangle trams a long way behind. “I wish you could stay with me at Hitherton, some time, Susie. Do you think you would like the country?”
‚ÄúOh, I adore the country,‚Äù cried Susie in her turn. She had imagined herself saying that, more than once, in interviews. She asked for nothing better, she always told the imaginary journalist, a young man, very nice, very respectful, than to retire to her little country place‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust a cottage where she could do everything for herself (see photograph). But what she did not know, that morning, was that very soon, sooner than she expected, she really would be giving those interviews. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve never seen enough of it,‚Äù she went on, ‚Äúbecause I‚Äôve spent nearly every bit of my time in towns‚ÅÝ‚Äîusually awful holes. If the country only had theatres and shops and people, it would be perfect, wouldn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
Miss Trant laughed, then took the car into the side of the road, and stopped, “We can eat our sandwiches here, don’t you think?”
Susie sniffed the air appreciatively. ‚ÄúIt feels quite strong, doesn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe air, I mean. It‚Äôs so funny not to get it secondhand, used up a bit. I‚Äôve been brought up on that kind, and this sort makes me feel a bit tight. Really it does. I want to giggle.‚Äù She skipped out of the car and pirouetted a little on the shining grass. Then she looked down ruefully. ‚ÄúJolly wet, though. That‚Äôs the nuisance about the country, though, isn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîIt‚Äôs so wet and muddy. When it does dry up, it suddenly gets dusty then, and if you go a walk you‚Äôre absolutely choked and too thirsty to speak and your shoes are too tight all of a sudden.‚Äù
They ate sandwiches. “I wonder what the very superior Miss Potter thinks about us all this morning,” Miss Trant remarked. “You don’t like her, do you?”
“Like her!” cried Susie. “She made me feel like murder last night. She did everybody. And as for thinking this morning, she won’t have started yet. I know. She’ll be just getting up now, wiping the cold cream off her face. Honestly, she’s poisonous. She’ll have us all quarrelling like mad within a week. They always do, that kind. You just watch. Jimmy ought to have known, even if he was in a hurry and she sounded all right. A woman would have spotted what she was right off.”
“Perhaps she’ll improve in a day or two,” said Miss Trant, rather indifferently. “I must admit she was rather terrible yesterday.”
“Did she say anything to you?” Susie inquired. “I’ll bet she did.”
“Oh yes. I wasn’t left out, I assure you, Susie. She strolled up to me and said: ‘I say, I don’t quite see why you’re doing this, you know. This isn’t your line at all, is it?’ ”
“She would! The cheek! How that girl’s come to live so long beats me.” Having relieved her feelings, Susie grew thoughtful, stole a glance or two at her companion, then said, finally: “But it isn’t your line, is it?”
“I never said it was,” Miss Trant replied.
“No, of course not,” Susie went on. “Don’t think I’m going to be cheeky now. Or if you do, stop me. And I can promise you now that I’m not going to say a word about Bournemouth, not going to mention the place.”
‚ÄúThank you, my dear,‚Äù said Miss Trant demurely. ‚ÄúAs a matter of fact, the others haven‚Äôt mentioned it lately‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, they just look it now,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve noticed them. Their eyes go rolling ‚ÄòBournemouth‚Äô at you. Honestly, don‚Äôt they? I noticed Joe‚ÅÝ‚Äîpoor darling!‚ÅÝ‚Äîyesterday staring at you, like a sick cow, and I really thought something was the matter with him until it dawned on me he was trying to stare you into telling him something about the Bournemouth offer. But what I was going to say was this‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAren‚Äôt you really getting a bit tired of us?‚Äù
“Gracious no!”
“Honestly now?”
‚ÄúNot a bit. I won‚Äôt include Miss Mamie Potter‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Gosh! I should think not.”
“But I assure you I’m not in the least tired of the rest of you, of the party. I’m like you, Susie. I’m feeling restless, not knowing what I want to do but only knowing what I don’t want to do. The thought of our spending a whole summer on the South Coast somehow doesn’t attract me at all.”
“I know. But what does attract you?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” Miss Trant replied, as lightly as possible, though it was quite obvious she was in earnest.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs me all over‚ÅÝ‚Äîup to a point,‚Äù Susie remarked. ‚ÄúI do know what I want, though‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a fine fat chance I‚Äôve got of getting it! Inigo annoys me. Doesn‚Äôt he you?‚Äù
“No. Why should he?” Miss Trant was amused.
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt laugh; it‚Äôs serious. Well, he could do something, and he just doesn‚Äôt. He‚Äôs so feeble‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust the amah‚Äëteurrr, you know ab‚Äëso‚Äëlutely.‚Äù Here Susie gave a vindictive imitation of Inigo‚Äôs careless tones. ‚ÄúWhen he follows me round, looking like a dying duck‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yet won‚Äôt do anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîand is so high-and-mighty about the bits of things he writes for papers‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough no paper will ever have them‚ÅÝ‚Äîand won‚Äôt bother about his songs, though they might get him anywhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, I could beat him, I really could. And then if I say something nasty to him, instead of answering back or putting his tongue out or giving me a good shaking‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Which I’m sure you’ve deserved,” Miss Trant put in.
‚ÄúHe just looks at me‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike the Norphan Child‚ÅÝ‚Äîand walks away, and then stays away, sulking. He makes me furious. Not that it really matters, of course, what he does. But just now, when I‚Äôm dying for a chance myself, it‚Äôs enough to make me sick to see somebody who has a chance not doing anything. So that‚Äôs that. And now you can laugh, if you like. Let‚Äôs go, shall we?‚Äù
On the way back a curious thing happened. The side-road they were on joined the main road about ten miles out of Gatford, and it chanced that when they arrived at the turning the traffic on the main road, consisting for the most part of new cars from Gatford, was thicker than usual, so that they pulled up for a minute or two. Miss Trant was idly watching the procession of cars when suddenly she stared intently and gave a little gasp. The next moment she was standing up trying to obtain a last glimpse of a car that had gone past them, there on the main road, and in the opposite direction from Gatford. The moment after she was sitting down again, still wide-eyed and a trifle pale.
“What’s the matter?” cried Susie.
‚ÄúI thought I saw someone I know‚ÅÝ‚Äîor used to know,‚Äù Miss Trant replied shakily.
Susie looked at her. Then she burst out in triumph: “It’s that man you once told me about, isn’t it? Doctor McIntyre or whatever his name is? The one on the boat.”
‚ÄúDoctor McFarlane. Yes, I thought it was. But it was all so quick. Besides‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, it‚Äôs absurd!‚Äù
“Why is it absurd? I don’t see it. Couldn’t he be here as well as anywhere else? Haven’t you ever tried to find out where he is?”
“No, I haven’t,” Miss Trant replied not very firmly. “Why should I?”
“Why should you!” Susie was both sympathetic and derisive. “If it was me, I should know all about him. Doctors ought to be easy to find. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you didn’t feel well and sent for a doctor, and then he came and said: ‘What, you!’ You don’t know. He may have been in Gatford or Mundley or Stort or somewhere round here all the time. Let’s get back at once and find out. If you don’t, I will.”
It was useless for Miss Trant to protest, and indeed she did not protest very much. Once back in Gatford, Susie made for the nearest telephone directory and was so excited that she could hardly turn the pages. Susie was always wildly romantic on other people‚Äôs behalf, and is to this day. But no Dr.¬ÝHugh McFarlane was to be found in the telephone directory, which cast a wide net in the district. This was rather a blow for Susie, but she was not daunted. She pestered Miss Trant until that embarrassed lady was compelled to admit there was such a thing as a Medical Directory, where any doctor might be found. She was also compelled to admit that she had never examined one. ‚ÄúAnd how you couldn‚Äôt beats me,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs no use you saying you don‚Äôt want to know, because you do.‚Äù
“But it’s all so ridiculous,” the other protested. “I haven’t seen him for years. He’s probably forgotten my existence.”
‚ÄúAnd probably not,‚Äù Susie told her. ‚ÄúThe sort of man you‚Äôd like probably wouldn‚Äôt, though I must say I wouldn‚Äôt give most men six months. I believe,‚Äù she added shrewdly and boldly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre frightened. I‚Äôm being really cheeky now, I know, but it‚Äôs because I‚Äôm so fond of you. And I hate to think of you just looking after us and then sitting alone reading about the three musketeers or Robin Hood or whatever it is you do read about, when there may be, somewhere round the corner, a marvellous Scotch doctor who‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here Susie became very dramatic‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwhen he comes back to his lonely house, late at night, after performing all sorts of operations‚ÅÝ‚Äîand ‚ÄòBless you, doc!‚Äô the poor people say‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI got that from a film‚ÅÝ‚Äîsits in his chair and smokes a pipe and thinks of you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand already his hair is turning grey at the temples‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, do be quiet, Susie,” cried Miss Trant, crimson, half-laughing, half-angry. “I shall really be cross if you don’t.”
“All right then, I will,” said Susie, preparing to depart. They were at Miss Trant’s hotel now. “But I shall go round to the Free Library and see if they’ve got that book with all the doctors in. You can’t stop me doing that. Goodbye.”
And about three-quarters of an hour later Miss Trant was called to the telephone. It was Susie. “I daren’t come round, and I couldn’t wait,” said Susie. “I looked at that book. It’s stiff with McFarlanes. They must all be doctors. Honestly, dozens of ’em. I’m not sure whether I found the right one.”
“He was born in 1885 and went to Edinburgh.” Miss Trant told the receiver, and then heard a little laugh come floating back to her.
‚ÄúWell, anyhow he isn‚Äôt here. Isn‚Äôt it a shame? I got it down to three‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they were all miles off‚ÅÝ‚Äîone in India and another in Aberdeen‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I think the other was in London. I asked the Library man if the book wasn‚Äôt out of date‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he got quite annoyed‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut when he calmed down a bit, he admitted that lots of the doctors could have moved since it came out. And he‚Äôs seen our show‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he recognized me after a bit and was quite sweet. So I think it probably was him, don‚Äôt you?‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, I don‚Äôt,‚Äù said Miss Trant. ‚ÄúIt couldn‚Äôt have been. You shouldn‚Äôt have bothered. It‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äînothing.‚Äù
And when she returned to her room, she reminded herself that it was all nothing. It is not much fun being so intimately concerned with nothing. The thought of it can even rob you of your legitimate pleasure in a good historical novel. Louis the Eleventh of France and the Duke of Burgundy made a poor show of capturing Miss Trant‚Äôs interest for the rest of that afternoon. One sneered, the other stormed, but all in vain‚ÅÝ‚Äîpoor shadows!
II
The next day, Elsie became a Dulver. From all parts of the country there came Dulvers to welcome her, the males all large, shining, pink, hoarse, and brassily convivial, the females all large, blonde, and elaborately coiffured and upholstered. It is difficult to imagine what the Dulvers would have made of a christening or a funeral, because it is difficult to imagine a Dulver either coming into this world or going out of it; but there could be no doubt they were designed by Nature to celebrate weddings. The customary festivities, all the eating and drinking, the healths and back-slappings, sledgehammer compliments and naughty jokes, might have been invented for them. Elsie was inspected by all manner of Dulverish relatives, who looked as if they were quite capable of having her stripped and weighed, and of pinching her in sundry places to make sure she was a sound article. After being thus inspected, she was approved. The general opinion obviously was that, with her shape, colouring, and disposition, it was only a matter of time‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith some further coiffuring, upholstering, and the sipping of small ports‚ÅÝ‚Äîbefore she became a very good specimen of the female Dulver, fit to queen it in any hotel. And Bert was proud of her. Bert‚Äôs father and mother, two fine heavy Dulvers, were proud of Bert. All the relatives were proud of somebody or something, if only of their appetites‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI‚Äôm sixty past,‚Äù one gigantic purple Dulver told everybody, ‚Äúand I can eat and drink with the best yet.‚Äù Thus they were all happy.
Mr.¬ÝDulver senior, in the business himself and now the host of so many professionally convivial persons, had no alternative, could not have found one even if he had looked for it: the thing had to be done in style. The style he had chosen he called ‚Äúthe slap-up,‚Äù but it might also be described as the Late Roman, so great was the crowd of guests, so lavish the feast. The immense wedding breakfast that awaited them in the long room upstairs drew a tribute even from the old masters, the purple Dulvers. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was there with the rest of the Good Companions, told his friend Mr.¬ÝJock Campbell that the commercial travellers of Bruddersford, a body of men famous for their mighty feasts, had never done better than this. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôll be champagne i‚Äô them gurt bottles, eh?‚Äù he whispered. Mr.¬ÝCampbell replied indifferently that it was, and that in his opinion champagne was poor stuff. ‚ÄúTak‚Äô notice o‚Äô the whisky, man,‚Äù he added. ‚ÄúIf a few o‚Äô them gaes in for the wines an‚Äô sweet drinks, it‚Äôll work oot tae a bo‚Äôle o‚Äô whisky a man. An‚Äô if I started on it, juist wetted ma lips, I couldna run the length o‚Äô the halfway line Saturday.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝCampbell did not sigh because he was not given to sighing, but he shook his head and looked as wistful as it is possible for a thirteen-stone fullback to look, as he thought what he might have done with all that good whisky if there had been no football field waiting for him on Saturday. But he was gravely happy to be in the presence of so many landlords in a big way. He had been greeted as an old acquaintance by many of the sporting Dulvers.
Miss Trant met some old acquaintances too. At first she was rather dazed among all this handshaking, back-slapping, guffawing, roaring press of people, and after she had shaken hands with the ecstatic Elsie and her Bert, before the wedding breakfast began, she retired into a corner and found herself wishing it was all over. The Dulvers were too large and loud for her, though she could not help being amused by them, for they were all so like one another and so unlike any other set of people she had ever known.
“Now you’re Miss Trant, aren’t you? That’s right, that’s right.”
This came, in a thick, husky voice, from a stout elderly man, who now stood before her with his head cocked on one side. ‚ÄúAnd you don‚Äôt remember me, do you? Knew you right across the room. Couldn‚Äôt get the name at first‚ÅÝ‚Äîgot the face all right, not the name‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen it come back. Now stop a bit and think. Take your time. Remember me?‚Äù
She had seen that prominent, reddish nose, that damp forehead, those little humorous eyes, somewhere before. He had not looked so clean then. Sheffield. That funny little house. It was Elsie’s uncle, the trombone player. Unkerlarthur, they had called him. She told him so.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. You‚Äôve got it,‚Äù he said, shaking hands. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard all about you, through our Elsie. She doesn‚Äôt write to me, you know, but our Effie hears from her regular, and she passes it on to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîsome of it, anyhow. Been good to our Elsie, you have, Miss Trant. Oh, I know! Well, she‚Äôs a good girl, isn‚Äôt she?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, fairly speaking and taking her all round, she is a good girl, isn‚Äôt she? And‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere he became very confidential‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúshe‚Äôs done well for herself, hasn‚Äôt she? He‚Äôs a nice feller.‚Äù
Miss Trant agreed that he was, and said they both seemed very happy.
Unkerlarthur came nearer and was so confidential that his mouth seemed to slip round to the right side of his face and stay there. ‚ÄúThey said to me this morning, both of ‚Äôem, ‚ÄòAny time you want a holiday, little blow by the briny, you come and stay with us at where‚Äôs it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîEastbeach.‚Äô Well, I shan‚Äôt go, ‚Äôcos people get you there, then find they don‚Äôt wancher. ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs he come for?‚Äô they say. But I like to be asked, don‚Äôt you? Course if it‚Äôs something extra special, like this, I‚Äôd go. Only got here just in time this morning. I was playing at the theatre last night, and had to be up at five this morning to get here at all. Got a substitute for tonight‚ÅÝ‚Äîand God help ‚Äôem when he starts. He‚Äôs got a note like riving oilcloth. Our Effie‚Äôs here. Have you seen her?‚Äù
Miss Trant had hardly time to say she had not, before Unkerlarthur dived into the through and reappeared in about two minutes, dragging Effie with him. Effie, looking like a larger and coarser edition of Elsie, almost hurled herself at Miss Trant, into whose mind there came leaping the oddest recollections of the hotel on the road from Derby, the Tipsteads, and the queer evening in Sheffield.
“Well, I don’t know!” screamed Effie, who was obviously in the highest spirits. “Fancy us meeting like this! Of course I knew we should. And aren’t you looking well! Ten years younger, honest. I hardly knew you. How d’you think I’m looking?”
“Very well indeed,” said Miss Trant, who had just come to the conclusion that Effie resembled nothing so much as a tropical sunset accompanied by rumours of earthquake. “You’re a little thinner perhaps.”
“Think I am!” cried Effie triumphantly. “Nearly a stone down, which is more than our Elsie can say. Now you’ve put a bit on, I should say, but then you could stand it, couldn’t you? Theatricals suit you, Miss Trant, my word they do, the way you’ve come on this winter. Remember when I asked you to take some things to our Elsie? That started it, didn’t it? If it hadn’t been for that, you wouldn’t be here, and Elsie wouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be here, not really, you know, if you think about it.” And Effie rattled on in this strain for another five minutes, after which she rushed away and joined some male Dulvers.
‚ÄúBy her palaver,‚Äù Unkerlarthur observed sardonically, ‚Äúanybody‚Äôd think she was three brides rolled into one ‚Äôstead of the bride‚Äôs sister. I always knew our Elsie‚Äôd go first. I‚Äôd have laid five to one on it. Our Effie tries too hard, that‚Äôs what‚Äôs matter with her. You‚Äôve got to let ‚Äôem think it‚Äôs their ideear, haven‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe fellers, I mean. But soon as our Effie meets ‚Äôem, she lets ‚Äôem hear the wedding bells‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô they don‚Äôt like it, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîit has to come gradual. This‚Äôll go to our Effie‚Äôs head properly, this will. There‚Äôll be some trade on with her now. She‚Äôll never rest till she‚Äôs got hold o‚Äô some poor chap.‚Äù
“Miss Trant!”
The voice was familiar. At first it did not seem to come from anywhere in particular, but after a moment or two, during which there was quite a commotion in that corner of the room, and large Dulvers appeared to be hurled right and left by some invisible force, there emerged from the crowd, shaken, gasping, but triumphant, little Miss Thong.
“Now isn’t this a surprise?” she cried, so excited that she could hardly get the words out of her mouth.
“Take it easy,” Unkerlarthur put in severely.
“I should think it is,” said Miss Trant, smiling. “And a very nice one too. I’m so glad to see you again.”
‚ÄúThere now!‚Äù cried Miss Thong, as if to some unseen audience that had been waiting for this moment. ‚ÄúBut I said to Elsie, in a letter of course, after she wrote to me and gave me the wonderful news and said ‚ÄòDo try and come,‚Äô I said to her, ‚ÄòWell, if I can manage it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that will depend on the work and Pa, but chiefly Pa‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut if I can,‚Äô I said to her, ‚Äòdon‚Äôt tell Miss Trant and then it‚Äôll be such a surprise.‚Äô But after I thought to myself, ‚ÄòOh, she won‚Äôt remember you, you silly little thing, seeing all the people she does and going from place to place all the time, fresh faces everywhere.‚Äô But you did, didn‚Äôt you?‚Äù
“I recognized your voice before I actually saw you,” Miss Trant told her.
“Did you really? Well, but you see, I saw you and called out and then couldn’t get to you and had to push a bit.”
“I saw you knocking ’em about,” said Unkerlarthur solemnly.
‚ÄúThis is Elsie‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Miss Trant began.
Unkerlarthur held up his hand. “We’ve been interjooced, Miss Thong and me. Haven’t we?”
‚ÄúEarlier this morning,‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúAnd a treat it was too, you telling me all about the theatre. I had to push because everybody here‚Äôs such a size, aren‚Äôt they? I thought I was going to be lost and then they‚Äôd have to put a notice up: ‚ÄòLost‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Thong. Finder Rewarded.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù She laughed, coughed, and laughed again. ‚ÄúBut did you ever see so many enormous people? I never did.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs ‚Äôcos they‚Äôre all in the public line o‚Äô business,‚Äù Unkerlarthur explained. ‚ÄúThey may not take a lot themselves‚ÅÝ‚Äîsome of ‚Äôem‚Äôll hardly touch it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut the smell does it. Then some of ‚Äôem‚Äôs bookies, and they‚Äôve got to be fat‚ÅÝ‚Äînobody‚Äôs never give nothing to a thin un.‚Äù
‚ÄúWould you believe it!‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúBut they‚Äôre all nice, aren‚Äôt they? One or two of them have spoken very nicely to me, although they don‚Äôt know who or what I am, and when I came I never expected to be noticed. ‚ÄòJust let me see it,‚Äô I told Elsie. And now I suppose it‚Äôs nearly time to begin eating all this, though how anybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt care how big they are‚ÅÝ‚Äîwill ever get through a quarter of it, I can‚Äôt think.‚Äù
“I shall do my share,” said Unkerlarthur sturdily. “I’m peckish.”
‚ÄúIf I get a mouthful down,‚Äù Miss Thong gasped, ‚ÄúI shall be lucky, I‚Äôm that excited and silly. You know me of old, don‚Äôt you, Miss Trant? Always the same with me. I go on and go on, sitting in my little room‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou remember it, don‚Äôt you, Miss Trant?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre building now where they kept the hens, though it‚Äôs not spoiling the view‚ÅÝ‚Äîand there I am, doing my work, seeing nobody but customers coming in‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Pa of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless there‚Äôs something special on at the chapel. And then,‚Äù she continued, after gasping for breath, ‚Äúwhen something does happen, I‚Äôm all upset‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust excitement and silliness, that‚Äôs all. ‚ÄòOh, stop it, you silly little thing,‚Äô I say to myself many a time, and I could shake myself sometimes, I could really, though that wouldn‚Äôt make it any better, would it?‚Äù
‚ÄúWorse,‚Äù Unkerlarthur told her, ‚Äúmake it worse. What you want to do is to take it easy. What‚Äôs the matter with you is temperament, that‚Äôs what it is. Our family‚Äôs been just the same, except me. And there‚Äôs men playing in bands now‚ÅÝ‚Äîmen I‚Äôve known, men I‚Äôve played with; I could give you their names‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they won‚Äôt take it easy. They‚Äôll rehearse all right‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh yes‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite all right. When it comes to the night, all of a dither. What happens? Say a wrong sheet o‚Äô music is slipped in‚ÅÝ‚Äîa wrong sheet, that‚Äôs all.‚Äù He looked sternly down at Miss Thong.
“Well, fancy!” said Miss Thong, who evidently felt that something was expected of her.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a thing,‚Äù said Unkerlarthur, still looking stern, ‚Äúthat happens many a time. Where are they? These fellers that won‚Äôt take it easy, I mean. Where are they? They‚Äôre lost, finished‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt find the right sheet‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt pick up the cues‚ÅÝ‚Äîand bang goes the part! And all ‚Äôcos they won‚Äôt take it easy.‚Äù
“So there you are, Miss Thong,” said Miss Trant, smiling at her.
But Miss Thong did not stand rebuked. “You’ve no idea,” she told them both, “what a treat it is to me to hear all these things about the theatre. And then seeing you all too, close to!”
“They’re sitting down,” said Unkerlarthur, who promptly prepared to sit down himself.
“You must sit next to me,” said Miss Trant, “unless you’ve arranged to sit somewhere.”
“D’you think I could? Don’t you think they’d mind?” Miss Thong’s long witchlike nose flushed with pleasure. “If I got between two of these big ones, they’d only see the top of my head, wouldn’t they? Do you think they’d mind if we sat here?”
So Miss Trant and Miss Thong sat together, and the latter chattered, gasped, ate, drank, coughed, and laughed so much that it was a wonder she did not shake what remained of her entirely to pieces. The Good Companions were scattered round both sides of the long table. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd sat with his friend, Mr.¬ÝCampbell, who was now looking very wary, as if something very strange might suddenly pop out of the great meat pie just in front of him. Mrs.¬ÝJoe was very stately, and looked well, flanked as she was by two reddish shining Dulvers. The tall figure of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was to be seen at one end of the table, among the important people. Two young female Dulvers, all gold and pink, were attending to Jerry Jerningham, whose accent was now so fantastic that many of the older guests were under the impression he was a foreigner. Inigo had tried hard to find a place by the side of his adored Susie, having had quite enough of the barren policy of pretending to avoid her; but he had not been successful. A very dashing young Dulver had carried her off and safely wedged her between his attentive self and the gigantic purple Dulver. This fellow had been hanging round her ever since they arrived, and Susie did not seem to mind at all. Indeed, she seemed to like his society‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fellow of a type that Inigo had always detested‚ÅÝ‚Äîa loud, brainless, teethy, pink ass, absolutely. It was incredible that Susie should be amused for more than five minutes by such a grinning idiot. If she was not pretending, he concluded, then there must be a vulgar streak in her somewhere. Impossible that a man could really be in love with a girl if he could think about vulgar streaks in this way. If he could only hold on to that vulgar streak, he would soon feel wonderfully detached. Meanwhile, he would show her that it did not matter to him if she spent her time giggling with fifty appalling young Dulvers.
For some reason, which Mrs.¬ÝJoe and Susie said was known only to the deity, Miss Mamie Potter had been invited. Miss Potter was there at Inigo‚Äôs elbow, and was only too pleased to keep him company throughout the feast. He did not dislike Miss Potter as heartily as most of the others did, but he had no great opinion of her and he could not understand why she seemed so anxious for his company. There were plenty of young Dulvers there eager to wait upon her, and why she should prefer him, as she so obviously did, was a mystery. But for the last day or two she had been very gracious to him. It was very odd. However, there it was, and now he tried hard to amuse her and to look as if he had no other object in life than to keep her amused. Miss Potter did not exactly smile upon his efforts because she hardly ever smiled; her features were so circular that smiling was difficult; but at least she contrived to modify that insufferable look of faint astonishment when she glanced his way. She also contrived, while appearing to taste one or two things merely for appearance‚Äô sake, to put away a good deal of food and several large glasses of the sweet champagne.
When they had all finished eating, the gigantic purple Dulver suddenly arose and held up his glass. ‚ÄúNow then, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù he boomed, ‚ÄúI give you the ‚Äôappy pair. May they never regret this day. I‚Äôve regretted mine sometimes.‚Äù Laughter, and a cry of ‚ÄúNow then, Walter!‚Äù from an equally gigantic and almost as purple female. ‚ÄúAnd so has the wife, though from what she just shouted at me, you mightn‚Äôt think it. ‚ÄôOwever, that‚Äôs always blown over. When I ‚Äôave regretted it, ladies and gentlemen, I‚Äôve always found afterwards I was a bit below par at the time.‚Äù Laughter and applause. ‚ÄúIt was a ‚Äôappy day for me, and, if you ask me, this will be a ‚Äôappy day for Bert. Until today, Mrs.¬ÝBert was a stranger to most of us, but we can see by the look of her she‚Äôs going to make him ‚Äôappy. And if she hasn‚Äôt got a good husband, then I don‚Äôt know where you‚Äôre going to find ‚Äôem, that‚Äôs all I have to say. Here‚Äôs the best to ‚Äôem both.‚Äù And the toast was drunk with enthusiasm.
Bert, called upon to reply, said that he had nothing to say, and by rights shouldn’t be there at all. He was a married man now, and perhaps the less he said the better. (Cries of “Shame!” and “Quite right!”) But he would just like to say this. He had not always been lucky picking out winners. (Laughter, and “What about Sporty Boy?” from the dashing young Dulver who had attached himself to Susie.) But this time he was sure he had got a winner all right. (Applause, and “Then put your shirt on it, my boy,” from the purple Dulver, followed by screams of expostulation and laughter from the ladies.) And they knew, he hoped, they were all welcome to come and have a look at them down at Eastbeach.
It was evidently felt by the company that it was time now for somebody belonging to the bride‚Äôs party to make a speech. As Unkerlarthur was the only male relative, people looked at him, and after pretending for a minute or two that he had not seen them, Unkerlarthur was compelled to struggle to his feet and address the company. ‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù he remarked, feeling the end of his nose as if he were not sure it was still there. ‚ÄúThis is right out o‚Äô my line. I might play a bit of it if I‚Äôd the old trombone here. Anyhow, I‚Äôm only the bride‚Äôs uncle, and it‚Äôs a long while since she took any notice o‚Äô me. But our Elsie‚Äôs always been a clever and‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs better still‚ÅÝ‚Äîa good girl. I can see she‚Äôs got a good husband‚ÅÝ‚Äîas husbands go. And if she doesn‚Äôt make him a good wife, then I don‚Äôt know what he wants‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he doesn‚Äôt, neither. So we‚Äôll just fill up again, and I‚Äôll say‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere‚Äôs to ‚Äôem.‚Äù
This was felt to be sound but not entirely adequate, and now Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham rose both to his feet and the occasion. Two-thirds of the people there had not the slightest idea who he was, but he looked so imposing that immediately an awed silence fell on the company. He began by announcing that he felt very diffident, though it was difficult for the keenest observer to detect the slightest signs of diffidence. He felt however, he went on to say, that it was his duty, as a fellow-artiste, to say something about Mrs.¬ÝHerbert Dulver, long known to the Profession as Miss Elsie Longstaff. They had been on the road together, a remark that brought an enthusiastic ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù from Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was beaming upon everybody. Mr.¬ÝMitcham then proceded to develop this theme of comradeship upon the road. Like the born orator he was, he had the trick of making everything appear about ten times life-size, and very soon it seemed as if he and Elsie had been on the road together, the best of friends, for about half a century. You saw them traversing continents, deafened by the applause of whole nations. The fate of the English Stage was bound up, it appeared, with the history of the Good Companions, a history that was already a gigantic epic. Through his haze of sonorous words, the figures of Miss Trant and Inigo and the other Good Companions loomed titanically. The departure of Elsie was conjured into a thunderbolt from the malicious gods, and you felt the earth shaking beneath its impact. All was gloom for a short space, but then the heavens brightened again. Apparently this marriage was the only thing that could possibly have enabled Mr.¬ÝMitcham to bear up under the sorrow of losing Elsie. You gathered that it was an event to which he had been looking forward for years. And Mr.¬ÝDulver was the one man in the world, it appeared, worthy of playing the chief part in it. He had the highest opinion of Mr.¬ÝDulver, whom he had known intimately‚ÅÝ‚Äîor so he made it seem‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor at least ten years. And now, not only for himself, not only for his fellow-members of the troupe, not only for the whole Profession, but on behalf of all these and of the audiences here, there, and everywhere, that had taken Miss Elsie Longstaff to their hearts, he wished them every happiness and drank their very good health. This he did, amid applause and clinking of glasses, in what appeared to be about half a pint of almost neat whisky, which went to join a good deal more of the same liquor. It was this noble draught that inspired him to rise again and point out that these were the sentiments of a man who had been four times round the world.
Elsie, flushed with pride, happiness, and the sweet champagne, and already looking more of a Dulver, was compelled to respond. She told them she had had good times and bad times on the Stage, but mostly good times lately. At this point, her sister Effie suddenly and very dramatically burst into tears. When Effie had subsided a little, Elsie went on to say that she did not expect to have all good times now she was married, but felt sure she and Bert would be a happy pair, and she would do her best. And all of them had been very kind and nice, and she thanked them and hoped to see them all again before very long. All the presents, she added, were beautiful. (“And so they are!” from Miss Thong.) And now she and Bert would have to be going, because they were catching the afternoon train down to Eastbeach.
Then followed any amount of handshaking, back-slapping, and kissing. Everybody trooped below to give the pair a good send-off, and the final scene outside the hotel when the two drove away and the whole company gave three cheers, under the joint leadership of the gigantic purple Dulver and Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, was so striking that Mrs.¬ÝJoe, tearful but enraptured, said she had seen nothing like it since the finale to the second act of The Rose of Belgravia in which she and Joe, as a chambermaid and an ostler respectively, had sung side-by-side for the first time. By this time little Miss Thong had had so much excitement that she looked blue and her teeth were chattering, so Miss Trant packed her into her car and took her back to Gatford, there to rest and have a quiet cup of tea, A few of the other guests also departed. The remainder went upstairs, some to talk, smoke, and finish the bottle, some to dance.
‚ÄúChanges, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù roared Mr.¬ÝMitcham, as he reached the landing again. ‚ÄúBound to come, bound to come. I know. I‚Äôve seen‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh‚ÅÝ‚Äîthousands of ‚Äôem. Very sad, but can‚Äôt be helped‚ÅÝ‚Äîin‚Äëev‚Äëit‚Äëable.‚Äù
“You’ve said it,” cried Jimmy.
‚ÄúThank you,‚Äù he replied, simply but with great dignity, and then lit a very large cigar that had been pressed upon him by an admiring Dulver. He and Jimmy and one or two others of vast experience formed a circle, while another was formed by several football-loving Dulvers and Joe, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and Mr.¬ÝJock Campbell, who obliged by demonstrating, with the aid of a bottle and two glasses and an ashtray, exactly what happened when Everton scored that curious goal against Sheffield Wednesday and so won the Cup. And in various corners, the ladies, among whom Mrs.¬ÝJoe was prominent, discussed weddings they had seen and married couples they had known, and happily swapped reminiscences in which obstetrics, accidents, operations, various internal disorders, and deaths of every description, played their part.
There was dancing in the other room. This would not be worth mentioning if it were not for the fact that Susie and the dashing young Dulver danced together all the time. Inigo was left with Miss Mamie Potter, whose beautiful and extraordinarily intelligent legs enabled him to make a fair show of what was certainly not one of his major accomplishments. The dashing young Dulver could hardly be described as a good dancer‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe threw himself about too much to be that‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he was at least energetic and knowing, and therefore better than Inigo. There was one awful moment when Inigo imagined he caught a smile of derision on the faces of Susie and her insufferable partner. They were grinning at him! After that he held Miss Potter so close and threw such energy into his dancing that she had hardly breath enough to bring out her usual ‚ÄúI say.‚Äù When at last their bus came and it was time to go, Susie was not to be seen and neither was her cavalier, and it was reported that he had taken her back to Gatford. ‚ÄúI say,‚Äù said Miss Potter, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt admire her taste. I thought he was ghastly, didn‚Äôt you?‚Äù And so he and Miss Potter sat in the back of the bus, close together, and Inigo, his head a multicoloured whirl of drinks and dancing and gloom and gaiety, decided that he liked Mamie after all and that when they reached the end of the journey he would kiss her. But by the time they were back in Gatford, the gloom was spreading and his head ached a little and life seemed rather dreary and preposterous, and so instead of kissing Miss Potter he hurried away to his rooms, to rest for an hour or two before the show began. At the end of that hour or two he had decided that he must have it out with Susie.
‚ÄúThis can‚Äôt go on,‚Äù he told himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand her‚ÅÝ‚Äîsternly, as he brushed his hair and conjured his reflection into an image of a startled Susie. ‚ÄúIf you think I‚Äôm a man to be played with, you‚Äôre wrong, absolutely.‚Äù No, that sounded ridiculous. Something cool and sneering might be better. ‚ÄúI must congratulate you on your friends. I am beginning to wonder whether the honour of being considered one of them will not be too great a strain for me‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù No, that would not do, either. ‚ÄúLook here, Susie, I‚Äôve had enough of this,‚Äù with quiet but manly determination. Anyhow, he would have it out with her.
III
The time is a quarter to twelve on Thursday morning, the day after Elsie‚Äôs wedding. The place is the little upstairs room (where there are plenty of cushions and you may smoke) of Ye Jollie Dutche Caf√©, in Victoria Street, Gatford. In the far corner is a table that must be distinguished from all the others if only because it is the only one there on which any cups of Jollie Dutche coffee (‚ÄúOur Speciality‚Äù) have made their appearance this morning. Behind it, sometimes lolling and sometimes sitting bolt upright and looking very fierce, are two persons, a tallish loose-limbed youth, with a long wandering nose and a long wandering lock of hair, and dressed in baggy and indiscriminate clothes and a pretty dark girl, a compact and shapely girl, artfully tricked out in black and scarlet. The waitress who served the two coffees‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe wears a sort of federated Dutch costume, but has Gatford, Mundley, or Stort written all over her‚ÅÝ‚Äîrecognized these two at once, and by this time has told all the other waitresses downstairs that one of the girls from the Hippodrome, the funny dark one, and the piano-player are above, having big coffees just like ordinary people. And we recognize them too: Miss Susie Dean and Mr.¬ÝInigo Jollifant.
“I never heard such cheek,” Susie is exclaiming. “What’s it got to do with you?”
“Oh, nothing, of course,” the gentleman replies loftily. “Apologies for interfering in your private affairs.”
He is having it out with her, and so far it has come out badly, not at all according to plan. Now he pulls away at his absurdly large cherrywood pipe, and tries to do that loftily too. Unfortunately, it will not draw properly. If he had fifty pipes, they would not draw properly. It is one of those mornings, not at all the time to have it out with anybody, and especially Miss Dean.
“However friendly we were,” Susie continued, “you’d have no right to talk to me like that. If I chose to talk to a man and dance with him, it’s no business of yours. Besides, you know nothing about him.”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to. I know enough about him to see that he‚Äôs poisonous. But‚ÅÝ‚Äîas you say‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs no business of mine. I‚Äôm disappointed, that‚Äôs all. Some girls might like that type of chap, but for you‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚ÅÝ‚Äîeven to look at him, well, it sticks in my gullet, that‚Äôs all! Why, even Mamie Potter‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he was going on rashly.
“Mamie Potter! You’re not going to tell me what she thinks, are you? That would be the last straw. And you talk about people being poisonous! But go on, go on. What did Mamie Potter say?”
“It doesn’t matter what she said,” replied Inigo sulkily. The sooner Miss Potter was out of the conversation the better.
‚ÄúOf course it does! Your friend, Miss Potter! You ought to have seen yourselves yesterday. And if we‚Äôre going to tell one another who we ought to know, it‚Äôs my turn now, and I say, keep away from that girl. She‚Äôs dead rotten from the knees up. Everybody‚Äôs fed up with her already‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept you, of course. She‚Äôll wreck this show yet, if we‚Äôre not jolly careful. I know the sort.‚Äù
‚ÄúShe may be all that. I don‚Äôt know, and I don‚Äôt care,‚Äù said Inigo, quite willing to sacrifice fifty Mamie Potters. ‚ÄúBut what I do know and care about is that you behaved rottenly, absolutely, yesterday. You just flirted with that bounder, that pink teethy barman‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“He’s not a barman. And even if he was, you needn’t sneer at him. If I liked him, I wouldn’t care if he was a bottle-washer. I’m not like you, I’m not a little Cambridge snob.”
“No one could ever call me a snob,” said Inigo heavily.
‚ÄúAw‚ÅÝ‚Äîaw‚ÅÝ‚Äîcouldn‚Äôt they?‚Äù said Susie, in a wild burlesque of his offended tone. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm calling you one, and I believe you are one. And if you‚Äôre not one, then you‚Äôre simply jealous.‚Äù
“All right then, I’m jealous.” Inigo sounded very sulky now.
“Then you shouldn’t be jealous,” said Susie severely. But then she gave him a mischievous little glance. “Anyhow you oughtn’t to be horridly jealous. It’s quite possible, I’m sure, to be nicely jealous.”
‚ÄúNo, it isn‚Äôt. I hate it. But it wasn‚Äôt so much jealousy as sheer dislike of seeing you make yourself so cheap with a bounder‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“If you say another word, we shall quarrel properly,” cried Susie. “That’s the nastiest thing anybody’s said to me for years. Apologize for ‘cheap’ at once or I’ll never speak to you again. I mean it.” And she really looked as if she meant it.
“I take it back then,” Inigo muttered. “But you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t, except that you’re stiff and green with jealousy. And why you should be, I don’t know. It isn’t as if we’ve been very good friends lately.”
“And whose fault’s that?” he demanded.
“Yours. Of course, it’s yours, Inigo,” and she gave him a wide innocent stare.
‚ÄúYou know very well it‚Äôs not. Look here, Susie, you‚Äôve been unbearable lately, absolutely. You know what I think and feel about you‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“No, I don’t,” she put in, immediately. “Tell me.” And she leaned back and gave him a delicious smile.
‚ÄúOh, I think you‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he groaned. For a young man who intended to have it out, he was behaving very strangely.
“Go on, Inigo. Don’t stop. Tell me.” She made a show of settling herself very comfortably in her seat.
He pushed back his lock of hair, and then looked at her, steadily, gravely. “I’m not going to tell you any more, Susie,” he said at last. “It’s all just fun for you. You don’t really care a damn. Well, it isn’t fun for me, not just now, anyhow.”
There was silence for a few moments, then Susie said, in a small voice: “Why don’t you go on to the next part, Inigo?”
“What’s that?”
“You ought to say now ‘If you think I’m the kind of man you can play with, you’re wrong.’ ”
Inigo looked confused, and, glancing at him, she laughed. Then she hummed a little tune.
“I’m going,” he announced savagely.
“No, don’t go.” She laid her hand lightly on his. “I hate quarrelling. And if you go off in a rage, like that, you’ll make me feel sorry I came here instead of accepting that Dulver man’s invitation to go out in his car today and have a fine fat lunch somewhere. Yes, he asked me, and was most pressing. And I refused. I saw quite enough of him yesterday.”
“I should think so,” cried Inigo, highly relieved.
“Not that being with you is much good, these days,” she went on.
‚ÄúWhy? What‚Äôs the matter with me?‚Äù Then he suddenly changed his tone. ‚ÄúI know there‚Äôs nothing very wonderful about me‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I’m sure you don’t,” she told him.
“I suppose you’re sick of seeing me about,” he said, humbly. “And the ironical thing is, I wouldn’t be about here at all, if it weren’t for you. That must be getting pretty obvious to other people too by now. Miss Trant pointed it out to me the other day. Because you’re with the show, Susie, I couldn’t drag myself away from it. If you went, I’m darned sure I couldn’t stick it out another week.”
“That isn’t saying much for the others,” she told him.
“Of course I like the others, at least most of ’em. It wouldn’t break my heart to see the last of Jerry J. or the Potter girl, but I’m very fond of all the old ones now. But after all, I’m not in love with ’em.”
“Which means you are with me.”
“Absolutely.”
“Still?”
“Worse than ever. So there you are. And if anybody had told me a year ago I should be dithering like this, I should have wanted to give him one on the jaw. And yet I wouldn’t change it now, though a jolly rotten dither it’s been lately, I can tell you.”
‚ÄúSorry, Inigo. Sorry‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely.‚Äù
“Tell me, are you fed up with me? Does the sight of me mooning round make you feel sick these days? Or what is it?”
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Susie slowly and earnestly, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been in a queer sort of mood lately, I know. And you‚Äôve been so heavy and serious lately, too, not half so amusing as you used to be. But it isn‚Äôt just that. You‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, you irritate me!‚Äù
“Why? What do I do?”
‚ÄúOh, you‚Äôre so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äîfeeble.‚Äù
“Feeble!” It came out in a shout. He stared at her, amazed.
“Yes, feeble.”
“Oh, am I, by jingo!” With that, the outraged young man sat up, suddenly flung an arm round her, twisted her round towards him, and kissed her soundly and well before she could do or say a single thing. There are heavens that await only reckless men, and he spent a delirious minute in one of them. Then he found himself shot out of it, and back in Ye Jollie Dutche Café with all his courage evaporated. He waited, breathless, for something momentous to happen now, and though this creature by his side had been for some time the very centre of his universe, he had not the least idea what would happen. He could almost feel himself cringing.
Susie was staring at him, her eyebrows raised, and breathing hard. ‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and then she suddenly laughed.
His bravado returned with a rush at the sound. “And that’s the kind of man I am,” he announced.
“Well, it’s not the kind of girl I am,” she told him, “especially at twelve in the morning in an imitation Dutch café. So don’t try it again, that’s all.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
“It made me feel quite sick,” she said calmly, turning an impudent face, still rosy and brilliant, towards him. “No, not again! Who do you think you are? Now listen.” She looked serious. “When I said you were feeble, I didn’t mean that. I meant you were feeble about work.”
“Work!” Inigo pronounced the word as if he had never heard it before.
‚ÄúThere you are, you see. You don‚Äôt even know what I‚Äôm talking about. You‚Äôre just a feeble amateur, that‚Äôs all you are, Inigo. This C.P. business‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Stage, in fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîis just a bit of a game to you. Well, it isn‚Äôt to me. I‚Äôm a pro. I‚Äôm not doing this for fun, young feller. I haven‚Äôt run away from school for a few months.‚Äù
‚ÄúIf you think I‚Äôm going back to that school or any school‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo began.
‚ÄúNever mind about that. It‚Äôs me we‚Äôre talking about now. I want to get on and if I don‚Äôt get on soon, I‚Äôll burst. Why, that Dulver man yesterday‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Inigo groaned.
‚ÄúOne of the first things he told me,‚Äù she continued, ‚Äúwas that he‚Äôd heard how clever I was and was coming to see me because he knew young Jack Rozzy very well and young Rozzy is working with his father now, old Rozzy, who‚Äôs the booking agent for the P.M.H. Syndicate‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Help!” cried Inigo.
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be silly. Well, I didn‚Äôt believe all he told me‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Dulver man, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut still, it was something. You never know, something might come of it. And at any rate he did understand I wanted to move up a bit and not stick in this all my life.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut what do you want me to do? Have I to go to young Rozzy and tell him to tell old Rozzy‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, shut up! You think this is all nothing, and that‚Äôs just what makes you so irritating. It‚Äôs serious. Of course I don‚Äôt want you to go to any Rozzies. I don‚Äôt want you to help me. I can look after myself. But if you‚Äôd only go and get something done for yourself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you could easily, with those songs‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI wouldn‚Äôt mind. I hate to see chances thrown away. It makes me sick. It‚Äôs the way you hang about and just don‚Äôt do anything that irritates me. It‚Äôs so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso amateurish and feeble.‚Äù
“So that’s it, is it?” said Inigo softly.
“Yes, that’s it,” she replied defiantly. At this moment, another customer arrived, a solitary man, who came in, as solitary men always do, very quietly. A few moments after, three men entered together, making as much noise as a little army, as three men always do. Apparently all four were amateurish and feeble, for Susie regarded them with contempt.
Inigo had been fingering a card in his pocket. He still looked a little agitated, but there was the ghost of a smile hovering on his face now. ‚ÄúAs a matter of fact‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he began; but then he must have thought this matter of fact should not be introduced into the conversation, for he suddenly stopped short.
“Well? Go on.” Susie looked at him, not unkindly but not with any obvious signs of admiration.
“Nothing,” he replied lamely.
Susie’s rather full lower lip made a tiny movement that said quite plainly: “You are exceedingly feeble, this very minute, and not my idea of a man at all.” She flicked away some cigarette ash from her clothes, and then rose. “I must go.”
Inigo returned to his lodgings, wondering whether he had ‚Äúhad it out‚Äù or not. Certainly a great deal had come out, but very little of it had figured in his original programme. If it had not been for one thing, he would have felt miserable, crushed, about two feet high. That thing was the card in his pocket. It had been his original intention to tell Susie about that card. The moment she had shown herself repentant‚ÅÝ‚Äîperhaps a little tearful‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe had decided to wave away all her apologies, and then to raise her at once from the depths of contrition by showing her the card and telling her what he had planned to do with it. That moment, as we have seen, had never arrived, and so the card stayed in his pocket.
It had found its way there only that very morning, half an hour before he had left his rooms to meet Susie. A young man with a masterful nose, wavy black hair, and a startling pink shirt and collar, had bustled in on the very heels of the landlady, and had announced himself as Mr.¬ÝMilbrau, Midland representative of Felder and Hunterman. ‚ÄúAnd you can‚Äôt say you don‚Äôt know them, eh?‚Äù this visitor chuckled.
“Who?” Inigo was still rather dazed.
“Felder and Hunterman.”
“I don’t,” said Inigo, looking at his visitor in astonishment, as well he might, for that gentleman, with all the dexterous rapidity of a conjurer, had put down his hat, taken a chair and drawn it nearer to the fire, sat down, lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and rubbed his hands, all in one flash of activity.
‚ÄúHa-ha, ‚Äôs a good one!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMilbrau. ‚ÄúDidden‚Äô think you‚Äôd be up‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôsmatter of fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut here y‚Äôare, up all ri‚Äô and having a dig at the old firm.‚Äù He rubbed his hands harder than ever.
“But who are they?” demanded Inigo, in all earnestness. “I seem to have heard the name before.”
‚ÄúStop it now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMilbrau. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt grumble. I‚Äôve bought it‚ÅÝ‚Äîconsider I‚Äôve bought it! Let‚Äôs ge‚Äô down to business, and stop pulling my leg.‚Äù
“I’m not pulling it, no intention of doing, absolutely,” said Inigo, who could not see why a strange young man in an angry pink shirt should rush in and talk about pulling legs. “All I say is that I seem to have heard the name of Whater and What’s it before.”
Mr.¬ÝMilbrau stared and his mouth fell open, though the cigarette still remained hanging from one corner of it and calmly went on smoking itself, as if specially trained to do so. ‚ÄúSeem to have heard the name!‚Äù he almost screamed. ‚ÄúFelder and Hunterman, biggest people in the music-publishing trade today‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the oldest! And you a pianist! You mus‚Äô have played thousands of our numbers. Oh, you can‚Äôt mean it! Here, have a cigarette.‚Äù And the very next second, there were two rows of cigarettes about six inches from Inigo‚Äôs nose.
Inigo politely refused, and filled and lit a pipe while Mr.¬ÝMilbrau explained why he had called. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm doing this Midland round, d‚Äôyou see‚ÅÝ‚Äîsongs and dance stuff,‚Äù he began, ‚Äúand these two days I‚Äôm here, in the Triangle. Come here ev‚Äôry two months. Went to your show las‚Äô night. Nothing else to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then it‚Äôs business with me, d‚Äôyou see, because we like to know how our numbers are going. And you surprised me, I‚Äôll tell you that now. You did! You surprised me. You‚Äôve got a classy little show there, an‚Äô I know‚Äô cos I‚Äôve seen hundreds‚ÅÝ‚Äîhundreds‚ÅÝ‚Äîanundreds. That comeediyenn‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, clever kid, clever! Whasser name? Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs it. And that boy doing your light comedy work and dancing‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat boy‚Äôs good‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe is‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs good. A nice li‚Äôl show! Mindjew, some of the numbers‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere he raised both hands, then let them fall‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúdead‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou couldn‚Äôt kill ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre dead. I‚Äôm travelling about twenty numbers now‚ÅÝ‚Äîboth sentimen‚Äôals and comics‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô they‚Äôd juss make the diff‚Äôrence to that show of yours, they would, juss the diff‚Äôrence. No, no, wai‚Äô a minute, wai‚Äô a minute. Don‚Äôt make a mistake. I‚Äôm not here to sell you anything.‚Äù
Inigo was relieved to hear it, though he did not say so. He waited for his visitor, who was now lighting another cigarette, to continue.
‚ÄúHere we are,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMilbrau, looking with half-closed eyes through a cloud of smoke at a scrap of paper. ‚ÄúNow you got one or two numbers in your show that were new to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they were‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood.‚Äù He brought this last word with a shout. ‚ÄúTricky numbers, real tricky! They got me going all ri‚Äô and I‚Äôm in the business d‚Äôyou see. I put ‚Äôem down on this bit o‚Äô paper. Don‚Äôt say I got the titles ri‚Äô but you‚Äôll know. Now as a favour, juss as a favour, take a look at ‚Äôem.‚Äù He handed over the paper, and Inigo saw at a glance that all the five numbers, headed by ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù were the very ones he had composed himself.
‚ÄúNow all those numbers you have there,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMilbrau went on, ‚Äúare new to me. And I‚Äôm in the business. And they‚Äôre good, they‚Äôre tricky, they‚Äôre catchy. It‚Äôs the chunes‚ÅÝ‚Äîwords are nothing, written ‚Äôem myself before now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs the chunes! Now juss as a favour, jewmind telling me where you got ‚Äôem from? You‚Äôre the pianist and so you know ‚Äôem all, d‚Äôyou see. That‚Äôs why I come to you. Got your address las‚Äô night at the Hippodrome after the show. And I‚Äôm busy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm terribly busy, gotter get away this afternoon‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I had to know. Now jewmind telling me where you picked ‚Äôem up?‚Äù
‚ÄúNot a bit,‚Äù replied Inigo heartily. ‚ÄúI wrote them myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe music, you know.‚Äù
“You did?”
“I did. As a matter of fact I’ve just finished writing them out properly. There they are, on the table.”
Mr.¬ÝMilbrau jumped up, saying, ‚ÄúMind if I look?‚Äù and without waiting to know if Inigo minded or not, began to turn over the manuscript sheets and wag his head and hum now and again. When he had done, he put the sheets neatly together and gave the pile a smart slap. ‚ÄúWho were you goin‚Äô to give ‚Äôem to?‚Äù he inquired very quietly but with a momentous air.
“Not the least idea,” Inigo told him. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
Mr.¬ÝMilbrau shook his head. ‚ÄúHadn‚Äôt thought about it! Doesn‚Äôt know Felder and Hunterman! And turns out this stuff! Don‚Äôt tell me you‚Äôre a reg‚Äôlar pro‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôre not‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I knew it right off. Suppose you wouldn‚Äôt like me to take these along?‚Äù he inquired.
Inigo told him he would not.
‚ÄúNo. Thought you wouldn‚Äôt. All ri‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt blame you. Now I‚Äôll tell you something. If I was you‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I‚Äôd written these‚ÅÝ‚Äîjewnow what I‚Äôd do? I‚Äôll tell you. I‚Äôd put them in a bag, take my hat and coat and walk right out of that door, take the nex‚Äô train up and be at Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs with ‚Äôem, before they closed tonight. I would. An‚Äô I wouldn‚Äôt play ‚Äôem another night, either. You don‚Äôt know who‚Äôs listening. I tell you, I‚Äôd be up in the Charing Cross Road with these numbers this afternoon, and I‚Äôd stay there, never mind about the job here. In a month you‚Äôd laugh at it. I‚Äôm excited about these numbers. I don‚Äôt look it but I am. But I‚Äôm not trying to rush you into anything, am I? You listen to me, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. Don‚Äôt send these numbers anywhere. Take ‚Äôem. Go with ‚Äôem. Play ‚Äôem through yourself‚ÅÝ‚Äîonce‚ÅÝ‚Äîthass all. An‚Äô if you go to Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô they‚Äôre the biggest people in the trade today‚ÅÝ‚Äîonce‚Äôll be enough. Take ‚Äôem to Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs an‚Äô ass for Mr.¬ÝPitsner‚ÅÝ‚ÄîP-i-t-s-n-e-r an‚Äô say I told you. Here, I‚Äôll tell you wha‚Äô I‚Äôll do. I‚Äôll write to Mr.¬ÝPitsner myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô tell him. I‚Äôll write tonight. Bedder le‚Äô him know your coming. Send him a wire. Busy man, Mr.¬ÝPitsner. You‚Äôd never seen him if you hadn‚Äôt had an intro, but when you do see him, ‚Äôs‚Äôbusiness. Here, I‚Äôll write on this card too as well‚Äôs send a letter. You show ‚Äôem tha‚Äô, you‚Äôll walk up withou‚Äô a wor‚Äô.‚Äù Thus Mr.¬ÝMibrau, who ended by gabbling so furiously that there was hardly a consonant left in his speech.
And that is how Inigo came to be in possession of the card that saved him from feeling absolutely crushed after his talk with Susie. Back in his lodgings, he took it out of his pocket, put it on the table, and then smoked a pipe over it. Feeble, was he?
IV
The various encounters of that week may appear to be of little or no importance, but actually all of them, whether real or imaginary (for we do not know whether Miss Trant saw Dr.¬ÝHugh McFarlane or only thought she did), were important to the people who took part in them, and indeed to many other people too. And the last encounter of them all is no exception. It happened on the Thursday evening, in the taproom of the Market Tavern, the public-house that adjoins‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it should‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe space just behind Victoria Street where Gatford still has a weekly open market. The day for that market is Thursday, so that the Market Tavern was fairly crowded when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd visited it, a little after six, on this particular Thursday evening. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew that it would be crowded, having been long enough in Gatford to know all about such things. It was his habit to enjoy a half-pint about this time every evening, before he began his night‚Äôs work at the theatre. Sometimes he liked a quiet, peaceful, meditative half-pint, and at other times he preferred a noisy, gregarious half-pint. It depended upon his mood. When a glass of beer is one of a man‚Äôs few pleasures and luxuries, he will not casually swill it down, not caring when or where he drinks it. He will exercise to the full his power of choice. That is why places like Bruddersford are full of public-houses. To the outsider, anybody who does not understand such matters, these public-houses look all alike, but to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and his friends they are as different from one another as the books in a bedside shelf are to an old reader, and a pint at one of them is entirely different from a pint at the next one.
On this Thursday evening then, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, alone, in need of noise, cheerfulness, company, possibly the company of other men who knew the road, decided for the Market Tavern. The taproom was all a babble and a haze, so crowded that it took him nearly ten minutes to push his way through, order his half-pint, and finally receive it over the dripping bar-counter from Joss, the big barman there. During this anxious interval, he had nodded to a few habitu√©s, and that was all: he had not time to have a look round the place, which was incidentally the largest taproom in all Gatford. There seemed to be a lot of strangers about, but then there usually was on Thursdays, chaps in from the outer districts and the country, and chaps who sold things in the market‚ÅÝ‚Äîgenuine men of the road, though not on the grand scale. Once he had edged away from the bar-counter, taken a pull at his half-pint, and seen that his pipe of Old Salt was going well, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began to look about him.
“ ’Ow do,” several acquaintances called out.
‚ÄúNa then,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd affably, giving them a nod.
There were so many chaps standing in the middle of the room, a long narrow room, chaps arguing in groups, that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had not strayed very far from the bar-counter, could not see the other end. But there was no reason why he should see it, and so he stayed where he was, not feeling at all lonely now because he knew quite well he could join any of these groups if he wanted to and talk away as hard as the next man. He was content to muse a little, and take in, without making any effort to listen, the scraps of talk that came flying from every direction. ‚ÄúSo I says to ‚Äôem, I says, ‚ÄòWell, what of it? ‚ÄôOo made you boss of the job?‚Äô And ‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòClever, arncher?‚Äô And I says, ‚ÄòClever, yer bloody self!‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Then, from the other side: ‚ÄúI betcher ‚Äôe did, I betcher. Time me an‚Äô Jimmy went to Birmingham, ‚Äôe did. ‚ÄôEre, Jimmy, ‚Äôalf a minute!‚Äù Somewhere behind was the usual political reasoner: ‚ÄúGovernment can‚Äôt do it, I tell yer. It doesn‚Äôt matter what you say, chum, they can‚Äôt do it. They‚Äôd ‚Äôave to pass a lor before they could do it. Don‚Äô chew believe Government can do what they like, chum.‚Äù And so it went on, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had heard it‚ÅÝ‚Äîor something like it‚ÅÝ‚Äîmany times before, listened with a touch of complacency. These chaps were all right, but most of them would do better to talk less until they had seen something. He, who had seen a lot in his time and might now see a great deal more before he had finished, was saying nothing. Still, they could go on talking: it did them no harm.
A moment came, however, when most of the chaps who had been talking at the tops of their voices suddenly fell silent, and there followed one of those curious lulls common to all companies. It was then that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd heard a voice coming from the far end of the room. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE came to the back o‚Äô the stall, see,‚Äù it said. ‚ÄúBig feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîproper fifteen-stoner‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut all blown out, all beer and wind, an‚Äô yeller blobs under ‚Äôis eyes like fried eggs‚ÅÝ‚Äînuthin‚Äô to him. An‚Äô when ‚Äôe gets to the back o‚Äô the stall, ‚Äôe takes a good look at me. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs right,‚Äô I says, ‚Äò‚Ää‚Äôave a ruddy good dekko, Mister Sexton Blake. An‚Äô bring Pedro the blood‚Äôound nex‚Äô time.‚Äô Oh, you should ‚Äôave seen ‚Äôim! ‚ÄòThat‚Äôll do,‚Äô ‚Äôe says‚ÅÝ‚Äîusual style, see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And having heard so much, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd immediately began threading his way through the crowd to that corner of the room. There could be no mistake about it. That was the voice‚ÅÝ‚Äînever to be forgotten‚ÅÝ‚Äîof his old companion of the road, Joby Jackson.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found him in the farthest corner, the centre of a little admiring group. He wore the same red scarf and if the suit he had on was not the very same brown check he had worn before, it was twin-brother to it. His face was as red and his eyes as bright as ever, and if there was any change in him it was merely that he did not look quite so dashing as he had done last autumn. Winter, his lean period, had left some faint mark upon him. For a minute or two he was too busy concluding his story of the big puffy man, a story that demanded a wealth of illustrative gesture, to notice Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who stood a yard or two away, holding his half-pint and puffing away at his little pipe, too shy to interrupt but determined to be seen.
“Well,” said Joby, having dismissed the big puffy man, to everybody’s admiration, “what about some more pig’s ear. ’Ere, I’m paying for this lot. Same again, boys?”
He jumped up, and caught sight of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. He stared; he frowned; then delighted recognition lit up his face. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, I know you! It‚Äôs George. George with the little straw basket!‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù grinned Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Joby pushed his way round the table and clapped Mr.¬ÝOakroyd on the shoulder. ‚ÄúYou mended the old stall. ‚ÄôAlf a minute, where was it? I know. Don‚Äôt tell me. We went to Ribsden, didn‚Äôt we? That time big Jim Summers started ‚Äôis bit o‚Äô bother. But you didn‚Äôt live ‚Äôere, did you? Up in Yorkshire, wasn‚Äôt it? Good old George! ‚ÄôEre, I‚Äôve wondered about you many a time, you an‚Äô your little straw basket‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour days at Sunny Southport that ruddy little basket was‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô your bag o‚Äô tools. ‚ÄôStrewth, George, fancy you turning up agen! ‚ÄôEre, we must ‚Äôave a gill or two an‚Äô then you can tell me the tale. Never mind them fellers, they can wait.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I will that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, one vast delighted grin. ‚ÄúI were fair capped when I heard you. ‚ÄòEh,‚Äô I says to mysen, ‚Äòthat‚Äôs Joby.‚Äô I‚Äôll just sup this off, then we‚Äôll ha‚Äô some more. Well, ar yer getting on, Joby lad? Is trade i‚Äô rubber dolls keeping up these days?‚Äù
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAven‚Äôt seen a rubber doll for months,‚Äù Joby replied. He began ordering two half-pints and kept on ordering them until he was served. ‚ÄúNo,‚Äù he said, wiping some of the froth off his face, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm out o‚Äô that now. Did well at Nottingham Goose Fair, then Tommy Muss‚ÅÝ‚Äîremember Tommy, ‚Äôim an‚Äô the tart?‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôe sloped agen‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô then I started beer-shiftin‚Äô, see. Got up Newcastle way and gets playin‚Äô pontoon back of a boozer up there an‚Äô loses the ‚Äôole ruddy issue, stall and all‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat a life!‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat about motter-car?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd inquired sympathetically.
‚ÄúOh, poor old Liz! She was napoo before I got up to Newcastle, just after I cleared out o‚Äô Nottingham, blind to the world. She gets goin‚Äô down a ruddy ‚Äôill, see, an‚Äô I can‚Äôt stop ‚Äôer. Down the other side there‚Äôs one o‚Äô these removin‚Äô vans big as a row of ‚Äôouses coming. I give the old bus a turn at the bottom‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô wallop‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre into the wall with our guts droppin‚Äô out. The poor old bitch ‚Äôad got all ‚Äôer front smashed in. ‚ÄòFinnee!‚Äô I says, an‚Äô gets the stuff out, waits for the first feller with a lorry to give me a lift for arf a dollar, an‚Äô leaves ‚Äôer there, proppin‚Äô the wall up.‚Äù
‚ÄúNowt else to be done, I can see that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, nodding sagely. ‚ÄúCost you more ner it ‚Äôud be worth. Eh, but it‚Äôs a pity! I‚Äôve thowt monny a time abart yon motter-car, all fixed up to live in. It were champion.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou wait a bit, George. I‚Äôll ‚Äôave another before you can turn round. Any‚Äôow, I‚Äôm properly in the cart after losing the lot in this boozer. I scrounges round a bit, an‚Äô then I meets a feller I know who‚Äôs with Baroni‚Äôs Continental Circus, goin‚Äô round to old skatin‚Äô rinks an‚Äô covered-over swimmin‚Äô baths with a lot o‚Äô cockatoos an‚Äô dancin‚Äô dogs an‚Äô mangy monkeys an‚Äô a couple of old trottin‚Äô ponies‚ÅÝ‚Äîsee? You never saw such a piecan of a circus. I could make a better one out o‚Äô the market ‚Äôere. But this feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîa feller called Johnny Dooley, a bit of a mug‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòI can get you in. It‚Äôs better than nothin‚Äô‚Ää‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîso ‚Äôe gets me a job. An‚Äô what d‚Äôyou think I was, when I wasn‚Äôt feedin‚Äô the dogs an‚Äô shampooin‚Äô the cockatoos an‚Äô taking the tickets an‚Äô helpin‚Äô to move the how-d‚Äôyou-do‚Äôs? I‚Äôm Tonio the Famous Continental Clown. You oughter see me, my God! An‚Äô gettin‚Äô two pound five a week‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen you got it! Everybody in that ruddy circus was dying of ‚Äôunger, honest they was. Even the ponies could ‚Äôardly stand up. If you saved up and bought yourself a packet o‚Äô fags, it was as much as your life was worth. They‚Äôd ‚Äôave murdered you for ‚Äôem. They tore ‚Äôem out of your ‚Äôand. When I‚Äôd been with ‚Äôem a month, I‚Äôd forgotten what a piece o‚Äô steak looked like. There was fellers that ‚Äôud eat anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôd ‚Äôave eaten you. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô I says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôve ‚Äôad enough of this. Time to give the Baronios and Tonios the soldier‚Äôs farewell.‚Äô Then I meets a feller I know who‚Äôs running one o‚Äô these mug auctions, see.‚Äù
All this, and a great deal more, describing Joby‚Äôs adventures during the winter, was poured into Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs ear as they stood close together, at no great distance from the bar. Two more pints, procured this time by Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, had been consumed by the time Joby had neared the end of his recital. He was now, once more, an independent trader with a little stall of his own, but only in a very modest way. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve gone back to an old line,‚Äù he concluded. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave seen it. Joey in the Bottle. Little glass figgers‚ÅÝ‚Äîput ‚Äôem in a bottle full o‚Äô water‚ÅÝ‚Äîwaggle the cork a bit an‚Äô these Joeys dance about, see. Old‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut clever, amuses the kids! An‚Äô very cheap to buy. Money for dust if you‚Äôve got a good pitch. Don‚Äôt satisfy me, though. I‚Äôm ‚Äôelpin‚Äô a feller too when I‚Äôm not selling Joey‚ÅÝ‚Äîa feller that auctions oilcloth, smart feller. I ‚Äôold the pieces up an‚Äô give ‚Äôem a bang to show it‚Äôll last till you get ‚Äôome. Workin‚Äô ‚Äôard and savin‚Äô up, that‚Äôs Joby just now, see. ‚ÄôEre, George, what you doin‚Äô? I‚Äôm tellin‚Äô all the ruddy tale.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stole a glance at the clock. By this time he was usually at the theatre‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe liked to be there early‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he would certainly have to leave in a minute or two to be there on time at all. So he explained briefly what had happened to him since the autumn. Even then, however, he was interrupted. A big man with an immense grey moustache pushed his way through the crowd and laid a hand on Joby‚Äôs shoulder. ‚ÄúTime to be off,‚Äù he remarked, and disappeared.
“That’s the oilcloth feller,” Joby explained. “ ’Ave to push off, George. ’Ere what did you say this ’ere show o’ yours is called? Did you say they’re ’ere this week?”
“That’s right. ‘Good Companions,’ they call ’em.”
Joby’s eyes widened and his mouth puckered up, to whistle soundlessly. Then he looked grave, confidential. “You ’ad any bother there, George, lately?” he asked quickly, with a rapid glance to left and right.
“Ar d’you mean?”
“Any kind of bother?”
‚ÄúWell, there‚Äôs been a bit o‚Äô calling out o‚Äô t‚Äôback,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs summat new to us. Giving t‚Äôbird they call it, but funny part is, all t‚Äôrest o‚Äô t‚Äôaudience fair goes off their heads, they likes it so much. It‚Äôs nobbut a few o‚Äô t‚Äôback.‚Äù
“You watch out, George,” said Joby, buttoning up his coat. “You’re in for a lot o’ bother if you’re not careful. Never mind ’ow I know. But I do know, see. You watch it, George. No, I can’t stop. ’E’s waitin’. Come in ’ere agen and look out for me.” And, without another word, he was gone.
And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did go in again and look out for him. He went in on Friday, and at dinnertime on Saturday, but Joby was not to be found. Curiously enough, there was no more ‚Äúbother‚Äù either on Thursday or Friday nights, and all the Good Companions, little knowing what was in store for them, congratulated themselves on being free at last of the few stamping and jeering hooligans in the audience. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself, however, was not so sure. It was all very mysterious. Even Mr.¬ÝJock Campbell, on being consulted, could make nothing of it, though it was his opinion, the result of long experience in arenas, that all crowds were partly composed of lunatics. And though this was all very well, the fact remained‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not ignore it‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat he had been told to look out and watch it by Joby Jackson, who was sane enough, a philosopher of the road.
III
Inigo in Wonderland
I
Inigo noticed, without surprise, that the Gatford Hippodrome was elongating itself, swelling, soaring, conjuring out vast darkening sweeps of galleries. This made it all the more difficult to find Susie. It was like playing hide-and-seek in the Albert Hall. After he had walked about quarter of a mile round the back of one enormous empty gallery, he suddenly discovered Mr.¬ÝMilbrau of Messrs. Felder and Hunterman standing by his side. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôScuse me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMilbrau was saying, ‚Äúbut the Tarvins are here.‚Äù Somehow this frightened Inigo. He hurried away, ran down a colossal flight of steps, and entered a lower gallery. He must find Susie at once, and he knew that she was in one of these galleries. Halfway round he came upon Mr.¬ÝMilbrau again. ‚ÄúHere he is,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMilbrau shouted; and immediately a number of lights were turned on. The next moment, Mr.¬ÝTarvin appeared, looking much smaller and fatter than he had ever done before. ‚ÄúAh, there you are, Jollifant,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre looking‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha!‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor you.‚Äù And there, hurrying up behind him, was Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, a terrifying figure. Her head was so big. As big as a coal-scuttle and with eyes like flashing lamps! Horrible! He turned and ran, and then all the lights but one dim glow, high up on the roof, went out. He raced frantically through deep menacing shadows. Gallery after gallery, innumerable curved flights of steps were passed in this wild descent, but at last he arrived at the floor of the theatre. And it was packed with people. They were even standing in all the gangways. Now the place was brilliantly lit, and it was obvious that the performance was about to begin. He noticed for the first time that he was already in his stage costume. He would have to push his way through all these people. He pushed and pushed and finally reached the stage, where Jimmy was waiting for him. There was something faintly sinister about Jimmy. ‚ÄúCome on, Inigo,‚Äù he croaked. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre late. We‚Äôve got a new stunt. Duets at the piano, that‚Äôs the idea. Got a new pianist.‚Äù And he hustled Inigo over to the piano. And there, waiting for him, was this horrible huge-headed Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, nodding and grinning. ‚ÄúI won‚Äôt,‚Äù Inigo shrieked. But Jimmy‚Äôs grip on his arm had tightened. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôS all ri‚Äô, quite all ri‚Äô,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMilbrau, who appeared to be holding him now on the other side. Inigo struggled but he could not free himself.
‚ÄúHoy, justa minute, ju‚Äëust a mi‚Äëin‚Äëute!‚Äù This voice did not belong to either Jimmy or Mr.¬ÝMilbrau. It was a new voice. It had no part in the proceedings. It seemed to stop everything.
Inigo stared at the man opposite, stared at his big blue-veined nose, heavy cheeks, and gingerish moustache. These features, he remembered now, belonged to the man who had entered the carriage with him at Gatford station. Yes, he was in a railway carriage. That was all right‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe ought to be in a railway carriage. But why? Then, as he shook himself, yawned and rubbed his eyes, it all came back. It was Saturday morning and he was on his way to see Mr.¬ÝPitsner of Felder and Hunterman. He had wired Mr.¬ÝPitsner yesterday, Friday morning, and that gentleman, who must have received Mr.¬ÝMilbrau‚Äôs letter, had replied: ‚ÄúYes come along can hear songs eleven and twelve tomorrow.‚Äù And then he had had to work it all out with a timetable. How to get to London and back between the end of Friday night‚Äôs show and the beginning of Susie‚Äôs birthday tea-party this very afternoon?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat had been the problem. It had meant catching a fiendishly early train from Gatford to Birmingham and then getting the express. And this was that early train. The mere snatch of sleep, the shivering wash and shave in the darkness, the scalding gulp of tea, the dash to the station through the queer dim streets. And here he was. And nobody knew anything about it, he reflected, hugging himself. Not a word about Mr.¬ÝMilbrau and Felder and Hunterman and this flying visit to London had escaped him. Ah!‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was deep. He meant to spring it on them as a surprise when he returned, that is, of course, if anything happened worth springing. If nothing happened, then nobody would be any the wiser. He was not going to let her think him feebler than ever.
He sat up and rubbed his hands. He felt cold and stiff and unpleasantly empty. It was too early in the day to be riding in trains, absolutely. The windows still showed a flash of angry red sky, and a chilly vapour hung about the flying fields. His eyes were hot and heavy, and somehow he had to stare hard at things to see them properly. Even then they did not seem very real. His dream hung about the fringes of his consciousness like the mist on the fields outside. This world of the cold railway carriage and the dawn breaking over an unknown landscape appeared to have little more solid reality than that other world of the long dark galleries, the ever-appearing Milbrau, and the monstrously-headed Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. But this world, though it might have its minor discomforts, was infinitely the more pleasant. And warming, quickening, at the heart of it was his sense of adventure. These two feelings never really left him all that day. In the last little room, the inmost place, of his mind was a tiny Inigo hugging himself and crooning over the adventure. And because the day started, like a dream, in the darkness and hurried him at once into the unfamiliar, it never quite lost its unreality; it might be large and highly-coloured and crowded with moving shapes, but it always remained brittle, ready to be smashed into smithereens by a mere cry of ‚ÄúNo, you don‚Äôt!‚Äù
“ ’Aving a bit of a tussle, wasn’t you?” the man opposite grunted amiably. “Bootin’ ’em a bit, eh? Gave my ankle a good old rap, I can tell yer.”
“Sorry!” said Inigo, and admitted he had been dreaming. The only other person in the compartment, one of those little old women who seem to be forever travelling on unimaginable errands, whatever the hour or route, was dozing in her corner.
‚ÄúSaw yer drop off just after we starts,‚Äù the man went on. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve caught this bleeder three times this last fortnight‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôad to. My missus says we‚Äôd better go and live in Brum an‚Äô ‚Äôave done with it. Doesn‚Äôt like getting up an‚Äô making me my bit o‚Äô breakfast, an‚Äô yer can‚Äôt blame ‚Äôer.‚Äù He brought out a small tin, selected a cigarette-end, which he contrived to light after it had been tucked away under his large moustache. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve offered to make my own breakfus‚Äô but that don‚Äôt do for ‚Äôer,‚Äù he continued, complacently blowing out smoke. ‚ÄúMuss ‚Äôave a proper breakfas‚Äô, she says, me goin‚Äô out like this, an‚Äô so she sees I ‚Äôas one.‚Äù
Inigo tried to imagine a deliriously domestic Susie insisting upon his having a proper breakfast on a morning like this, but he did not succeed in creating a convincing image of her in the part. Would she ever even share a breakfast with him? He had never thought of her having breakfast, but now that meal, hitherto regarded as a very prosaic business, a mere gobbling of eggs and bacon, became touched with wonder and romance. He heard her voice‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe could always hear her voice though he could never call up her face‚ÅÝ‚Äîasking him to pass the marmalade. He saw himself as a delightful attentive breakfast companion, without stopping to reflect that never in his life so far had he given any signs of being any such thing.
The London express offered him breakfast as soon as it left Birmingham, and he accepted its offer with alacrity. It was full of people who appeared to be old friends. Even the ticket-collectors and dining-car attendants seemed to know everybody. Men leaned across Inigo to ask one another where old Smith was. He had hardly begun his porridge before the man sitting next to him suddenly turned and shouted: “Hello! Wondered where you were. I say, is there any truth in that story about Bradbury and Torrence?” Inigo, startled, was about to stammer that he had not the least idea, when he discovered that his neighbour was not addressing him at all but a man busy chipping an egg at the other side of the aisle. And though the ticket-collector examined his ticket and the attendants brought him food, they did it impersonally, without any of those remarks about the weather and the number of people on the train that seemed to be offered to everybody else. At first he felt as if he had blundered into a party given by a complete stranger, perhaps the Lord Mayor of Birmingham. After a time, however, he merely felt that he was not really there at all. The train and its passengers did not believe in him.
A chance remark might break the spell. He tried the experiment at the end of breakfast, when the man next to him was lighting a pipe.
‚ÄúI say‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat time do we get in?‚Äù said Inigo.
“Yes, rather,” the man replied, poking at his pipe. And then he looked across the table at the man opposite, and, raising his voice, said: “I told Mason the other day that the Chamber of Commerce people were making a big mistake.”
“Mistake!” roared the man across the table. “They’re making the biggest bloomer I ever heard of.”
Inigo’s neighbour nodded vigorously, gave another poke or two at his pipe, then turned sharply. “What d’you think?” he inquired.
Inigo was quite ready to damn the Chamber of Commerce heartily, but once more it was the man at the other side of the aisle, the egg-chipper, the man who knew about Bradbury and Torrence, who was being addressed. And this fellow crossed over, put an arm at the back of Inigo‚Äôs seat, leaned forward, so far forward indeed that Inigo could easily have set fire to his beard and thought once of doing it, and then replied: ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not so sure about that, my boy. Remember what happened after the Stavely Commission? Well, it might easily happen again‚ÅÝ‚Äîin my opinion.‚Äù
It was very odd. Inigo did not seem to be there. They did not appear to believe he was a real person. But as he knew very well that he was there and that he was a real person, this only meant that that dreamlike sensation persisted, robbing even a London express of its substantiality and turning roaring tons of businessmen into flitting shadows. Even when they finally chuff-chuffed into the terminus, the sensation still remained. There was nothing about that gloomy phantasmagoria to suggest that reality was breaking through. The place looked as if it had been designed by the same mad architect who had built the colossal Gatford Hippodrome of dreamland. Inigo hurried out of it.
II
It was too early to go to Felder and Hunterman’s, and Inigo was in no mood for exploring London. Besides, the streets were being slashed with cold rain. One minute a pale sun would creep out and set everything glittering, and the next minute the rain would come sweeping down, up would go overcoat collars and umbrellas, and the streets would be full of people running as if for their very lives. A lunatic city. Inigo went into a teashop not far from the station, and there ordered a cup of coffee he did not want. This teashop had the air of still being in the hands of charwomen. There were no charwomen to be seen but the place seemed to smell damply and cheerlessly of their labours, and Inigo felt that at any moment a number of them would come trooping back to dry it off. The waitresses looked as if they had not yet recovered from a bitter reveille that had dragged them out of their little bedrooms, miles away in East Ham and Barking, and brought them sniffing in cold buses and trams and tubes to this teashop. Every customer, every order, was to them an affront. Their day had not really begun; they had hardly washed themselves yet; and as a protest against being disturbed so early they banged down sugar-basins and cruets on the little damp marble-topped tables. At close range they used the sniff, and at a distance the yawn. Such patrons as they had, however, seemed completely indifferent, in no way affected by these marks of contempt. They sat lumpishly, unstirring, at their little tables, as stolid and incurious as the bags they had dumped down beside them. The one exception was Inigo, who found himself compelled to order, receive, and sip his coffee with an apologetic air. There was, however, an Inigo inside, the skipper on the bridge, who was already indignant and protesting. There appeared to be a general conspiracy to pretend that he was feeble, of no account. And this tiny bristling Inigo inside asked everybody and everything in this huge lunatic warren of a London to wait, that’s all, just wait.
It is true that when he was actually on the way to Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs he suddenly felt ridiculous. The whole enterprise lost its sanity, seemed daft and hollow. What was he doing here with his parcel of silly songs? He ought to be going to Newman and Watley, the scholastic agents. They were solid and sensible. Their talk of French, History, C. of E., some games, ¬£150 Resident was reasonable, and not at odds with these offices and shops and buses and policemen. But Felder and Hunterman? Jingling songs? ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner‚Äù? Preposterous, absolutely! He was making a fool of himself. Everything he saw in the streets announced that there was probably no such person as Mr.¬ÝPitsner. The very name shattered conviction. By the time Inigo had reached Charing Cross Road, he was troubled by a little hollow place somewhere in the region of his stomach. He did not want to go any further.
There was still plenty of time, so he allowed himself to loiter. He began to look at shops. That saved him. Mr.¬ÝPitsner became real again. He had strolled into a little world in which the silliest jingle of a song was more important than Newman and Watley and all their clients. He had now no excuse for believing that his visit was ridiculous. Charing Cross Road was bursting with songs. If the shops were not filled with sheets of music, then they were filled with gramophones and records and saxophones and drums and banjos. The place seemed to be a Jazz Exchange. Moreover, he saw rows of songs that he had already played himself and dismissed as poor stuff. He marched into one shop and glanced through about twenty of its newest songs, and most of them were so bad that he found himself gleefully whispering ‚ÄúTripe, tripe!‚Äù His self-confidence returned with a rush. These people thought day and night about these jingles, and even then they could only bring out this muck. He hesitated no longer, but marched upon Felder and Hunterman with all colours flying. He would show them.
‚ÄúI want Mr.¬ÝPitsner please,‚Äù he said sternly, handed over a card, and then without paying any more attention to the assistant, looked about him with a nonchalant, faintly contemptuous air. He refused to be impressed, though there could be no doubt that Mr.¬ÝMilbrau had been right when he had said that his firm was the biggest in the trade. The place was fantastic. It was a vast bustling warehouse of sugary sentiment and cheap cynicism. Lost sweethearts‚ÅÝ‚Äîin waltz time and the key of E flat‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere handled here by the hundredweight. Bewildering rows of smiling Negroes implored you, in spite of the fact that they were clearing anything from two hundred pounds a week upward in London and occupying luxurious suites of rooms and riding about in gigantic cars, to take them back to their shack in Southland. ‚ÄúJust Little Miss Latchkey!‚Äù one wall screamed at you. ‚ÄúS‚ÄôImpossible!‚Äù another replied. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs a Blonde on Saturdays,‚Äù one row sneered, only to be answered, two hundred times over, by a companion row that cried: ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs All I‚Äôve Got.‚Äù And these were not merely songs. The least of them were Gigantic Successes. They were Hits, Whirlwinds, Riots, Ear-Haunters, Red Hots, Stormers. Messrs. Felder and Hunterman announced they were ‚ÄúHanding You Another.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝFelder told you, in large crimson type, to ‚ÄúGet It Now and Watch it Grow!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝHunterman promised that it would be ‚ÄúThe Sensation This Season at Douglas and Blackpool!‚Äù And together they implored you to believe them when they said: ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the Big Hit They‚Äôll Ask to Have Plugged at Them!‚Äù They told you frankly they were compelling every dance band in the country to play it, they were sweeping the North, they were sending the West End crazy. And they were proud of it.
Inigo shrugged his shoulders. He still refused to be impressed. Oh, Mr.¬ÝPitsner would see him, would he? Very well. He stalked after the assistant, down the corridor, into the lift. Mr.¬ÝPitsner‚Äôs room appeared to be at the top of the building and so he had ample time to imagine what Mr.¬ÝPitsner would look like. He saw a sort of super Milbrau, older, fatter, and more Hebraic, with even blacker hair and pinker shirt. He braced himself to meet this loud, hearty, designing fellow.
He did not meet him, however. He met a thin grey man, very quiet in manner and dress, a man who looked as if nothing had surprised him for twenty years. He gave Inigo the impression that he was tired and that he knew a great deal. Possibly he was tired of knowing a great deal. There was no mistake, though. This was Mr.¬ÝPitsner.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad to see you, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù he said in a low and rather mournful voice. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not always here on Saturday. In fact, I‚Äôm nearly always at home. But this time you‚Äôve caught me. People don‚Äôt usually get into this room when they‚Äôve just brought a few new numbers to us. If they did, I should never be able to get into it myself. But I had Milbrau‚Äôs letter about your things, you see. And Milbrau‚Äôs a very smart man.‚Äù
Inigo, who had accepted one of the fat Egyptian cigarettes that Mr.¬ÝPitsner had silently offered him, agreed that Mr.¬ÝMilbrau was a very smart man.
‚ÄúYes,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPitsner continued sadly, ‚Äúhe‚Äôs one of our smartest young men. In fact, I‚Äôm thinking of taking him off the road. He‚Äôs got something of a flair, something. I‚Äôve backed his judgement once or twice and been rather fortunate. He seems to have been quite carried away by these things of yours. It‚Äôs surprising,‚Äù he added, in exactly the same mournful low tone, ‚Äúbut that doesn‚Äôt happen once in five years, really new work coming from‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, if you don‚Äôt mind my saying so‚ÅÝ‚Äîfrom an outsider. People think it‚Äôs always happening, but it isn‚Äôt. You‚Äôre a pianist, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù
Inigo briefly explained what he was and what he had done, and Mr.¬ÝPitsner listened politely but with a sort of quiet despair. When Inigo had done, Mr.¬ÝPitsner touched a bell and told the girl who answered to send Mr.¬ÝPorry in. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd like Porry to hear them,‚Äù he said, watching the smoke curl from his cigarette. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs our memory man. He never forgets a tune.‚Äù
Inigo was bold enough to say that he hoped Mr.¬ÝPorry would not remember these tunes too well. The moment he had spoken, he regretted having done so, but Mr.¬ÝPitsner, though it had been hinted to him that he might be a possible thief, showed no signs of resentment. He merely shook his head. ‚ÄúWe shan‚Äôt steal them, if that‚Äôs what you mean,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt pay us. Some people would, people in a small way. But it wouldn‚Äôt be worth our while. As a matter of fact, Porry‚Äôs here to prevent you stealing. No old stuff, you see, with a note or two altered. That won‚Äôt do. If we want anything like that, we can manufacture it here. Now would you like Porry to run through them on the piano or will you do it yourself?‚Äù
Inigo said he would do it himself, but he did not feel very cheerful about it. No worse audience than Mr.¬ÝPitsner could possibly be imagined. It was incredible that he could be connected in any way with the rows of silly songs and the photographs and the screaming placards below. It did not look as if earthquakes and revolutions could arouse in him the least interest, let alone a few jingles. Mr.¬ÝPorry, a nondescript middle-aged man, arrived and accepted one of those cynical Egyptian cigarettes, and then Inigo dashed into one of his later numbers. Having got through one, he did not wait to hear any comment from the two sitting behind him, but went straight on to the next, keeping that Going Home number of Susie‚Äôs and ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner‚Äù until the last. By the time he had come to these two, he had lost any feeling of diffidence. He was simply enjoying himself at the piano again, and if Messrs. Pitsner and Porry did not like it, they could jolly well lump it. He slipped round the corner with all his old mischievous spirit. The music was in front of him, just as a matter of form; he never looked at it. He let the old tune rip, and as he played, odd little images of people and places, from Mrs.¬ÝTarvin and Washbury Manor to Rawsley and Sandybay and Susie and Elsie, Miss Trant and Oakroyd, came glimmering and joggling through his mind.
“A-ha, a-ha!” a great voice roared in his ear. “What have we here? Listen to this, Monte. Tumpty-tum-tidee-dee. Don’t stop, ol’ man, don’t stop. Let her have it once more.”
Two other men were now in the room. The one who was imploring Inigo not to stop was a big fellow with a paunch, a swollen face, and a humorous eye. That was Mr.¬ÝTanker. The other, Monte, was no other than Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, whose name was known even to Inigo, who did not pretend to much knowledge of the theatre, as a producer of revues. Mr.¬ÝMortimer was rather like a smallish, plump, and shaven Assyrian. He would have looked perfectly at home superintending the preparations for some gorgeous and possibly depraved entertainment at the Court of Nineveh. This life of big hits and gigantic successes had not left him so weary as it had Mr.¬ÝPitsner, but on the other hand he had nothing of Mr.¬ÝTanker‚Äôs gusto and good-fellowship.
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to hear those things through,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, after there had been introductions and explanations.
Mr.¬ÝPitsner nodded. ‚ÄúYou ought to. I‚Äôd thought about you before you came in. I rather think they‚Äôre what you‚Äôre looking for,‚Äù he added, in his usual tones of quiet despair.
‚ÄúTwo sure winners there at least, if you ask me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPony put in, with the air of a man who knows the value of his opinion even though it has not been sought.
‚ÄúThat last is one, Porry,‚Äù cried the genial Mr.¬ÝTanker. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs tricky. It really is, by God it is. Tricky. You could plug that one till the roof went, Monte, and they wouldn‚Äôt mind. Not like most of the bitchy stuff we have to keep playing. Have you got the words there, ol‚Äô man? Good. Well, when you come round to that one again, I‚Äôll sing it. I will, I‚Äôll sing it. And don‚Äôt let anybody tell me after this that we baton-waggers are jealous. We don‚Äôt know what jealousy is. Now then, ol‚Äô man, let her have it again.‚Äù
Inigo did let her have it, and Mr.¬ÝTanker, who was Mortimer‚Äôs musical director and a composer of these things himself, stood by the piano, humming and tapping and beating time, putting in some amusing little saxophone, banjo, and trombone parts. When they came to ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù he produced a husky little tenor voice that battled manfully with the song. Inigo, who by this time had decided that he did not give a damn for any of them, darted and flashed among the keys, in which antics he was finally assisted by Mr.¬ÝTanker, who put in fantastic little variations, in the high treble. And now another voice was there, humming away. It had brought with it all the perfumes of Araby. Inigo was aware of a presence, somewhere near him, but until he had banged the final chord there was no time to make out what it was.
‚ÄúWhoa!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker, mopping his brow. ‚ÄúHello, Ethel! Isn‚Äôt that a beauty? They‚Äôre all damned good, but the last two are real hell-busters.‚Äù
“Don’t tell me you wrote that, Jimmy,” said the lady who had just arrived. She spoke in a strong metallic voice, and indeed she looked a strong metallic person. Inigo recognized her at once as Miss Ethel Georgia, the well-known revue and musical-comedy artiste. He had seen her on the stage once or twice, and had seen dozens of photographs of her. Behind the footlights she was a ravishing creature, but at close range everything about her, her face, her figure, her clothes, her voice, her whole personality, was overpowering, too stunning. Inigo felt as if he were being introduced to an amiable blonde tigress.
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs just popped in from Little Woozlum or Puddleton-on-the-Slag,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTanker explained, ‚Äúand brought in a bunch of winners. That‚Äôs one you‚Äôve just heard.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat you have just heard, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù Miss Georgia wheezed nasally, in a parody of those dance-band men who announce their tunes, ‚Äúis Ethel Georgia‚Äôs new number, to be featured with sensational success in Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer‚Äôs forthcoming revue Who Did?‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm not so sure about that, Ethel,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer called out.
“I am, Monte,” she retorted, with a flash of personality that was like a magnesium fire. “I want it.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied easily. There was, however, a certain suggestion that he had tamed tigresses in his Assyrian days and could still do the trick, if necessary.
They all began talking at once, even the mournful Pitsner, who somehow contrived to hold his own with the others without raising his flat sad voice. Meanwhile, however, Inigo found himself talking to another new arrival who must have come in with Miss Georgia. He was a rotund fellow, most unwisely dressed in a plus-fours suit of glaring Harris tweed. As he peered at Inigo through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, Inigo felt that there was something familar about this rather droll face.
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to have a look through those other numbers,‚Äù he said, ‚Äúbefore Ethel grabs the lot.‚Äù Miss Georgia was now in the middle of the room, arguing with Mortimer and Tanker. ‚ÄúIf she gets her lily-white hand on ‚Äôem, no earthly chance for yours truly. She‚Äôs a terror. I‚Äôll bet you‚Äôre wondering what the devil I‚Äôm doing here in these clothes. Well, I‚Äôll tell you. I ought to be just laying one nicely on the green now, out at Esher, but she rings me up, not ten minutes before I was due to start. And did I get my golf? Be yourself! Drags me round here, round everywhere. And I‚Äôve got a matin√©e this afternoon. I‚Äôve to be funny from ten to three until five to five. She‚Äôs all right, she‚Äôs not working till Monte puts on his new show. But look at me. Still working, rehearsing Monte‚Äôs show‚ÅÝ‚Äîor what there is of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then can‚Äôt get a round of golf in. Oh, she‚Äôs wicked! Here, even the wife‚Äôs frightened of her. ‚ÄòTell her you won‚Äôt go,‚Äô she says to me. ‚ÄòTell her yourself,‚Äô I says. And did she? What a hope! Now let‚Äôs have a look at these songs.‚Äù
By this time Inigo thought he had recognized him. ‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott?‚Äù
‚ÄúI am. I‚Äôm the only man in England who is not not Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott. Can you squeeze a laugh out of that? I thought not. Trouble about that gag is, if you‚Äôre sober it doesn‚Äôt amuse you and if you‚Äôre canned, you can‚Äôt work it out. Every time I used to meet old Billy Crutch when he was soaked, I used to tell him that one, and believe me or believe me not, it bothered him so much he always ordered a black coffee and then went home in a cab, to think it out. Here, this looks a good number. Just tiddle it quietly, will you, old boy?‚Äù
But Inigo was not allowed to do any quiet tiddling. The others pounced upon him, though even when they had him in their midst they still went on talking to one another. It is true they were talking about him. He could not help wondering what would happen if he quietly walked out.
‚ÄúThe point is, Pitsner, you‚Äôve got to let me have the first cut,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúAnd so long as the rights are tied up‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúSo long as they are,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPitsner, out of the depths of his weary cynicism and Egyptian smoke.
‚ÄúWell, you know that‚Äôs all right so far as we‚Äôre concerned. You can tie that string on the dog‚Äôs tail now,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer continued.
Miss Georgia yawned spectacularly at the lot of them. “Hurry up, for God’s sake, Monte, and buy that bunch, anyhow. You’ve got one number so far that’s worth a damn, and I brought that one in.”
‚ÄúRight, Ethel, quite right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTanker heartily. ‚ÄúI know ‚Äôcos I wrote some of the duds myself. But then I‚Äôm not jealous. I‚Äôm not a comedienne.‚Äù
“Aren’t you, Jimmy?” she cried. And then she let out a sudden hard peal of laughter. “You never know till you’ve tried. A bit of crêpe de Chine, Jimmy, and some powder might work miracles. Come round and I’ll see what I can do for you, sweetie.”
‚ÄúKeep the big gags for the night, Miss Georgia,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTanker with tremendous mock severity. ‚ÄúAnd now let‚Äôs get on with the business. I‚Äôm thirsty.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝPitsner held up his hand and looked at Inigo. ‚ÄúWe like these things of yours, Mr.‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got it in you, old boy,‚Äù the irrepressible Mr.¬ÝTanker put in, clapping Inigo on the shoulder. ‚ÄúYour fortune‚Äôs made‚ÅÝ‚Äînearly.‚Äù
‚ÄúThe point is this.‚Äù It was Mr.¬ÝMortimer‚Äôs turn now. ‚ÄúI can use all those numbers you‚Äôve got there. And some more, if they‚Äôre as good. And some more after that. Performing rights, sheet music, gramophone records‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you know what happens or you ought to do. There‚Äôs bags of money in it, as you know, bags and bags. And Mr.¬ÝPitsner here and I can start you going. All right. Well, I understand you came up to see Felder and Hunterman. You‚Äôre not tied up to anybody else, not even negotiating with ‚Äôem, is that right?‚Äù
“Correct, absolutely,” replied Ingio cheerfully. “Nobody in London has heard these things, though I don’t mind telling you they’ve been a colossal hit in all sorts of places you’ve never heard of. With my troupe, you know.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what Milbrau wrote to me,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPitsner sadly. ‚ÄúGetting over tremendously in‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere is it? Gatford. He said they were eating it.‚Äù
‚ÄúGood! I‚Äôll bet they were,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMortimer, who seemed to be in an excellent temper now. ‚ÄúWell, my‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôve come to the right firm, no doubt about that, and of course you‚Äôll be willing to publish here. That right?‚Äù
“I should think so.”
‚ÄúAnd as you happen to be a lucky man,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer continued smoothly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôve struck‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis morning of all mornings‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe one man who‚Äôs looking for you. That‚Äôs me. I could easily come the old game, discourage you, say we‚Äôve plenty of stuff just as good, and so on, but that‚Äôs not my style, and if it was, I shouldn‚Äôt be Monte Mortimer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“So three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” cried Miss Georgia derisively. “Band, please!”
‚ÄúIf you‚Äôre solid with Felder and Hunterman, that‚Äôll do Mr.¬ÝPitsner here. Now I come in. I use those numbers‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe paused impressively‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand I use some more.‚Äù
‚ÄúBravo!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker.
“Now you’re talking like a man, Monte,” said Miss Georgia, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. Give the boy his chance. And give this little girl one too. That number about slipping is mine from now on, eh?”
‚ÄúSo there you are,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, smiling at Inigo. ‚ÄúAnd now what do you say?‚Äù
This was when Inigo began. “I’ve a good deal to say,” he announced, with a highly creditable appearance of complete calm.
‚ÄúI know.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer waved a hand. Messrs. Pitsner, Tanker and Porry smiled in concert. ‚ÄúTerms, of course. Don‚Äôt you worry. The terms will be all right. They‚Äôre going to surprise you.‚Äù
Inigo grinned. “That’s what we’re going to talk about. I’ve got some terms too. I hope they won’t surprise you. But they might.”
They all stared at him, and Miss Georgia pursed up her scarlet lips and produced a droll little whistle. Then Mr.¬ÝMortimer looked at Mr.¬ÝPitsner, and Mr.¬ÝTanker looked at Mr.¬ÝPorry. If one of the armchairs had suddenly made a remark, had perhaps pointed out that it was getting rather tired of that room, they could hardly have been more astonished. Inigo walked over to where Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott was still examining the manuscript music.
‚ÄúI fancy this one,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNott. ‚ÄúHere, ol‚Äô man, you‚Äôre not taking it away, are you?‚Äù
“For the time being,” replied Inigo firmly, “I am.” And he gathered the sheets together and then put them in the small attaché case he had brought with him. He did this with great deliberation, and reminded himself that no man who could justifiably be called feeble would have been able to achieve such calm and poise.
Somebody coughed. Then Miss Georgia, who was clearly enjoying the situation, suddenly let out a harsh scream of laughter. There was a murmur of voices. Inigo turned and rejoined the group.
‚ÄúI must say I don‚Äôt quite‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPitsner began.
Mr.¬ÝMortimer interrupted him. ‚ÄúLeave this to me, Pitsner,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre all right in this. Now then, Mr.¬ÝJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat about a drink?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker jovially. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what you mean, isn‚Äôt it, Monte? For God‚Äôs sake, let‚Äôs have a drink before there‚Äôs any more talking.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm agreeable,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll run round and have a look at Robert. He ought to be having an inspiration about now. Come on, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. Bye-bye, Pitsner, that‚Äôll be all right.‚Äù
As they filed out, Inigo was rewarded with a huge friendly grimace from the redoubtable Miss Georgia. “I don’t know what you’re pulling,” she whispered, “but some of you nice boys from college have got a Nerve. You’d get away with murder.” She squeezed his arm. “You freeze him a bit. It’ll do Monte good.”
But Inigo could only stammer vaguely in reply to this. Faced with Miss Georgia, he had no nerve. She terrified him.
III
Robert proved to be a grave, white-coated American who stood behind a cocktail bar in the glittering basement of one of the West End hotels. Inigo did not know which hotel it was. He knew very little about these establishments, and then everything had happened so quickly. Leaving Messrs. Pitsner and Porry behind, the four of them had rushed down and entered an enormous car; the car had shot them round several corners; and after that he found himself looking at Robert. The entry of Robert upon the scene did not make for clarity and a steady progression of events. After two of his cocktails, the very largest and strongest that Inigo had ever tasted, Inigo found the day tended to slip further and further into unreality. He himself was all right, solidly there in the centre and quite determined to do all that he had planned to do, but everything else, however bright and noisy it might be, was at some remove from himself and reality, all phantasmagoria. Throughout he realized that Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer was a personage of great power and influence, who had only to clap his hands and your name would be in all the papers and on all the hoardings, but he did not feel any respect for him because, after all, Mr.¬ÝMortimer too was a figure in the phantasmagoria.
That is why Inigo, after being asked what the idea was, did not hesitate to speak out boldly. “You like these things I’ve written, don’t you?” he said. “You want to use them, and you’d like me to write some more?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it. And you‚Äôre lucky, as I told you before. Hello, Tommy! Yes, I want to talk to you, but you‚Äôll have to wait. All right, make it Tuesday.‚Äù These last remarks, of course, were not addressed to Inigo but to some stranger who wanted to join them. The place was filling with people, and most of them seemed to be anxious to talk to Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúYes you‚Äôre lucky.‚Äù
“No doubt you’re right, absolutely,” said Inigo, speaking with great firmness and looking sternly at two people, a very large man and a very small woman, who threatened to break in. “But I don’t care much about that. In fact I don’t give a damn.”
‚ÄúWhat!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer was horrified.
‚ÄúNot really‚ÅÝ‚Äînot a damn. If you don‚Äôt mind my putting it that way. I‚Äôm not trying to be offensive, you know, please understand that. Hello, is this for me?‚Äù For two more glasses, charged with the sorceries of the grave Robert, had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
‚ÄúIt is,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝMortimer, a trifle grimly. Could this fantastic young man be drunk? The query, a hopeful one, was there in his quick glance at the glass.
‚ÄúI want you,‚Äù Inigo continued, after smiling at Mr.¬ÝNott, who intimated from a distance that the latest drink had been provided by him, ‚ÄúI want you to see a friend of mine, one of the girls in our concert party.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝMortimer put a great deal of meaning into this single syllable.
“I don’t want you to engage her, naturally,” said Inigo with dignity. “You haven’t seen her. But once you see her you’ll want to give her a part. She’s a genius.”
Mr.¬ÝMortimer smiled. Then he nodded to several people, presumably important people, people with names and careers in the profession, people who would only be too glad if he would give them even the smallest part. And then he smiled again.
“Genius,” said Inigo again. “The real thing.”
The other was paternal. “Don’t you bother your head about your concert party, my boy. You’ve done with that. In a month or two, you’ll laugh when you think of it. You will.”
“Because you’ve taken my songs, you mean?”
“That’s right. You’ll be too busy.”
‚ÄúCan‚Äôt be done,‚Äù said Inigo, who felt vaguely that this was a good hard businesslike phrase. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt be done, absolutely. Those are my terms. You‚Äôve got to have a look at this girl‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äòsee her working‚Äô as they say in The Stage advertisements. Otherwise, no songs. I don‚Äôt want to be vulgar‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough I feel it‚Äôs all in the part‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut take it or leave it.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut my dear chap,‚Äù the great man protested, ‚Äúit‚Äôs absurd. It‚Äôs all right standing by your friends‚ÅÝ‚Äîdone it myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut who d‚Äôyou think I am? Of course I know there‚Äôs always a certain amount of new talent knocking about in the provinces‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve gone down and spotted a few myself in my time‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut really you can‚Äôt expect me, Monte Mortimer, to go and have a look at a girl in a concert party I never heard of, you can‚Äôt expect it, you can‚Äôt really! No, damn it!‚Äù
‚ÄúIf you saw this girl‚ÅÝ‚Äîher name‚Äôs Susie Dean, by the way,‚Äù Inigo added, with a little thrill of pleasure, ‚Äúyou‚Äôd jump at her. Somebody will very soon, I can tell you that. And it might as well be you.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝMortimer shook his head and smiled like one who pities innocent and impressionable youth, ignorant as yet of this hard world.
This would not do for Inigo. “You never heard of these songs of mine before, did you? Well, this girl’s better than those songs. And as a matter of fact there’s a fellow too in the party, a light comedian and dancer, who’s first-class too. This is no ordinary concert party, I can tell you. Hang it, I ought to know. This girl’s worth fifty of that Georgia woman. Take my word for it. Why, if somebody had told you yesterday about these songs of mine, you wouldn’t have believed them.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer dubiously. ‚ÄúBut now I‚Äôve heard the songs.‚Äù
“And tonight you’ll see this girl,” Inigo told him.
“Tonight! You’re crazy.”
“The place is Gatford.”
‚ÄúI never heard of it,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer moaned. ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou call it? Gatford? My God! Tonight at Gatford! Oh, come now, you‚Äôve had your laugh‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet‚Äôs talk sense, let‚Äôs get down to business.‚Äù
“I have got down to it,” Inigo pointed out. “I’m up to the neck in it, absolutely. No Gatford, no songs.”
“It’s blackmail, my dear chap, it really is. You can’t dictate to me like that. You’re cutting your own throat.”
“As to that,” Inigo told him, at once heartily and firmly, “I don’t give a damn. Have another of Robert’s potions?”
‚ÄúWe must get a bit of food,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúI ordered a table here. You must lunch with me.‚Äù
“Delighted! And, thank you. But I warn you,” Inigo added, “I shan’t unbend. The more food and drink I have, the more iron goes into my will. Even now it’s got a metallic sound.”
‚ÄúHang on a minute, my boy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, darting Assyrian glances to left and right. ‚ÄúHello, Jeff! ‚ÄôLo, Milly. Yes, in a minute.‚Äù And off he went.
Inigo found himself talking to Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott, who popped up as quickly and quietly as a fish out of the sea. The place was very full now, and Robert and his assistants or acolytes were concocting and shaking and pouring out and handing over their liquid fire-and-ice as fast as they could. Everybody talked at once, at full speed, and at the top of his voice. Inigo was trying to tell Mr.¬ÝNott, who was a friendly little man, all about the Good Companions, but other people‚Äôs conversations or, rather, monologues were forever getting in the way. He was compelled to learn that about twenty shows were rotten, their theatres full of paper every night; that various gentlemen of the profession had been touched for tenners; that various ladies had said once and for all that they were not going to have their salaries slashed like that and that if Mr.¬ÝFenkel didn‚Äôt like it he could do the other thing; that Queenie was at her old game, grabbing all the fat; that it was as much as your life was, worth at the Pall Mall to get a laugh when Tommy Mawson was on.
“Did you say you knew Jimmy Nunn?” roared Inigo.
‚ÄúKnow him well,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝNott, in his wheezing voice. ‚ÄúMe and Jimmy‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ panto in Burnley in nineteen‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîit must have been‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“What?”
“It died standing, believe me,” said a voice right in Inigo’s ear.
He jumped and looked round. “What? I beg your pardon,” he gasped.
“Granted,” said the owner of the voice, with grave politeness. “I said it died standing. The remark was not addressed to you.”
“I know it wasn’t, now,” said Inigo. “I’m sorry.”
“But for your information, I may say it referred to the act of Kramer and Konley at the New York Palace,” the man continued bitterly. “The act died standing and now they’re through with Big Time. Isn’t that so, Oby?”
“I’ll say it is,” said a voice from the other side.
“Thanks very much,” said Inigo. He did not understand what they were talking about, but by this time it did not matter. This was not the ordinary sane world.
‚ÄúLaugh,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝNott, who was apparently just finishing a story, ‚ÄúI thought I should never stop for weeks. You oughter seen him, ol‚Äô man.‚Äù And he laughed himself, and so Inigo laughed too, having no doubt at all that it had been very funny indeed.
Then Mr.¬ÝMortimer arrived again, with various people swarming and crying in his wake, and said it was time they had a bit of food and led the way out of Robert‚Äôs domain into a much larger room, more glittering and noisier still, a medley of little tables and hurrying waiters and popping corks and Madame Butterfly with full tremolo effects. Mr.¬ÝNott went with them, and then Miss Georgia appeared again, bringing with her Mr.¬ÝTanker and two other people whose names Inigo never caught, a Semitic youth with waved hair and a small dark girl with the whitest face and reddest lips Inigo had ever seen. The moment they had sat down, waiters descended upon them with oysters and caviar and champagne and other things that Inigo ate and drank in a dim sort of way. Everybody talked at once, and Miss Georgia and Mr.¬ÝTanker, the Semitic youth and the small dark girl, all shouted to friends of theirs at other tables, and sometimes people stopped at the table because they ‚Äújust had to tell you‚Äù and then Miss Georgia or the Semitic youth ‚Äújust had to tell‚Äù them something back, so that it was like lunching in a painted and gilded pandemonium. Inigo, however, even when the champagne was still bubbling inside him, kept hold of the thread that had guided him from the real world into this sumptuous craziness, and though Mr.¬ÝMortimer affected the utmost incredulity and dismay, Inigo held on and only repeated his ‚Äúterms‚Äù; a word he liked to bring out as often as possible because he felt it was a word of power. Mr.¬ÝMortimer began looking at him with increasing respect. He condescended to ask questions, to which Inigo bellowed back (you had to bellow) the most enthusiastic replies. It was obvious that the great man was weakening. Inigo referred pointedly to the afternoon train he was catching, back to Gatford. The songs would be returning on that train too. Though of course they might come up to London again, those songs, quite soon.
‚ÄúGet me a boy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer to a waiter. Though the lunch was still going on, he took Inigo to one side, away from the table. A great man does not announce a decision when he is barely eighteen inches from a mixed grill. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll do it,‚Äù he said impressively. ‚ÄúIt wrecks the rest of this day, but I can fix that. Tell me where I‚Äôve got to go and don‚Äôt forget to see I‚Äôve got a decent seat. Better wire now. I can run you down myself in my car. No, I can‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîshan‚Äôt get down till about eight. How far is this place? About a hundred miles or so, eh? Do it under three hours and get back sometime tonight. You don‚Äôt think so? You don‚Äôt know my car, my boy. I‚Äôll eat it.‚Äù And when the pageboy arrived, he gave him instructions and messages innumerable, and among them was one from Inigo, a wire to the Gatford Hippodrome to reserve one stall. The great Monte Mortimer would see the Good Companions. Inigo did not say so in his wire; he sang it softly but triumphantly in his heart. And all the lights in the place seemed to grow brighter; the waiters suddenly began bringing nectar and ambrosia; the tables were crowded with the drollest good fellows and the prettiest women in London, such laughter, such wit; and the orchestra stopped making an irritating noise and decided to play the most delicious little tunes, to fiddle you into a happy trance.
‚ÄúI should like to ask you a question,‚Äù said Inigo carefully, when he was taking leave of Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a man of experience, you know the world. Do you honestly think I can be described as feeble?‚Äù
“As what?”
“Feeble is the word.”
‚ÄúI could call you many things,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, perhaps a trifle grimly. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a young man who could be called many things. But not feeble. If you‚Äôre feeble, most of the young men who work for me have been dead a long time. I don‚Äôt know what you‚Äôre like at pulling out the teeth of sharks, but in the ordinary way, just doing the ordinary sort of things, such as making a very busy and quite well-known theatrical producer go across England to see a pierrot show he‚Äôs never heard of before, you‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you‚Äôre not feeble. And‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he paused, artfully.
“Well?”
“You can tell her that from me. And that’s where I get one in, don’t I? Thought so. See you tonight then, and my God, if this girl of yours is a frost, you’ll hear something from me. And, don’t forget, these numbers of yours have got to go with a bang. I’m banking on them, not the girl. Bye-bye.”
Inigo caught the 3:15. It sent him to sleep and then wakened him at Birmingham. The train from Birmingham to Gatford was crowded with young men who all seemed far more excited than Inigo was, though they had only been to a football match, whereas he had been‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, where had he been? Oh, he didn‚Äôt know, it was all so absurd. Perhaps on the borders of a dream‚ÅÝ‚Äîby train, and at a reduced fare, namely a single fare and a third for the double journey‚ÅÝ‚Äîto a Charing Cross Road that might easily have begun swelling and quivering like a bubble. Felder and Hunterman, Pitsner and Porry‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Anthropophagi and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. Gatford station, however, contrived to hint that it knew what was going on in his own head. ‚ÄúStuff and nonsense!‚Äù it said, platforms, porters, kiosks, and all.
IV
Susie‚Äôs birthday tea-party, held in a large upstairs room in Miss Trant‚Äôs hotel was just finishing when Inigo arrived. There were signs that Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was about to make a speech over the ruins of the feast. Inigo, a little dazed and breathless, stammered something. Susie looked suddenly frozen; not a glimmer of welcome on her face. Miss Mamie Potter was not there because she had not been invited. But Jerry Jerningham was not there, either, though Inigo knew that he had been invited. All the others were present and were now looking at him reproachfully. No one knew where he had been.
‚ÄúNay, Inigo,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who liked to speak his mind on all occasions, ‚Äúthis is no time to turn up, lad. I thowt you‚Äôd ha‚Äô been t‚Äôfirst here, I did an‚Äô all.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Joe, with that complacent want of tact which made Mrs.¬ÝJoe, even yet, despair of him. ‚ÄúWhere in the name of goodness have you been to, young feller? We want an apology from you.‚Äù
“Oh, shut up, Joe,” cried Susie. “We don’t want anything of the kind. It doesn’t matter. What were you saying, Jimmy?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm awfully sorry, Susie,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúYou see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, coldly and wearily, and then she looked at Jimmy as if it were a pleasure to see a real human being.
Inigo sat down, and, though he knew his triumph was at hand, he could not help wishing that Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer was waiting outside. They all began talking again, and he felt out of it. ‚ÄúWhere‚Äôs Jerningham?‚Äù he asked finally.
‚ÄúCouldn‚Äôt come, he said,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝJoe, in a whisper that carried further than any ordinary tone. ‚ÄúHe sent a note and a present‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery nice, too‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean the present‚ÅÝ‚Äîa box of handkerchiefs, all in good taste, and very acceptable, upon my word, I was surprised. That young man is a Mystery to me, and I don‚Äôt believe in making them‚ÅÝ‚Äîmysteries, you know. If he‚Äôd come and brought nothing, that wouldn‚Äôt have surprised me. If he‚Äôd brought his present himself, that wouldn‚Äôt have surprised me, either. But not coming himself and yet sending such a nice present, now that is surprising. He‚Äôs a Mystery.‚Äù
But Inigo was not listening. He did not care whether Jerry Jerningham was a mystery or not. He was busy cursing himself because he had forgotten Susie‚Äôs present. He had meant to buy it in London. They had all given Susie something‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe could see the little parcels on the table‚ÅÝ‚Äîonly he had forgotten. True there was Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, who was really a large gift, but that was not the same thing. Here was Susie, twenty-one, never to be twenty-one again, though new solar systems should arise and new planets dawn in the blue, and he had not been here to wish her many happy returns and hand over something gloriously sumptuous and see her look at it, eager, excited, happy. She did not look a bit excited and happy now. Had her birthday party been a frost? Damn Felder and Hunterman and Monte Mortimer! He ought not to have bothered about them. And what did Jerningham, the little bounder, mean by not turning up, merely sending some snivelling handkerchiefs?
‚ÄúWell, Miss Trant, boys and girls,‚Äù said Jimmy rising, ‚Äútime to go, if you ask me. We‚Äôll wish Susie all the good luck she deserves‚ÅÝ‚Äîand good health, that‚Äôs a great thing in the profession, I give you my word‚ÅÝ‚Äîafter the show tonight. We ought to go and have a bit of a rest. It‚Äôs a big night tonight, house booked right up, and all for Susie here. Gatford‚Äôs going to get the show of its life tonight, I say, so we‚Äôd better take it easy for an hour or so before we start. That‚Äôs all right, isn‚Äôt it, Susie?‚Äù
Susie nodded, smiling at him but not too cheerfully. They all drifted away from the table. There was a movement towards the door. Susie began gathering up her little packages. This was Inigo’s opportunity.
“Look here, Susie, I’m awfully sorry,” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and turned away. The others were going now.
This would not do at all. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “I’m awfully sorry I couldn’t get here in time,” he added quickly, “and I’ve gone and forgotten your present too. No, you must listen, you must.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about it. Let me go.”
‚ÄúI won‚Äôt until you‚Äôve heard what I have to say. You see, I had to go up to London today‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“London!” There was a quick change of tone.
‚ÄúYes, London. I didn‚Äôt tell anybody I was going. I had to see Felder and Hunterman, the music people‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Inigo, your songs! They’ve been hearing them. Have they taken them? Do tell me, quick!” She was excited enough now, and all her eagerness was for him and his songs; she was not thinking about herself at all. And this was a wonderful moment for him. He had sometimes thought she was selfish, and many a time, long after that day, he was to think so again, but the recollection of that moment in the hotel at Gatford always drove the thought out of his head.
“They want them all right,” he began slowly.
“Oh, go on, go on. You’re so slow. Tell me all about it quick. If you don’t I shall think you’re feeble again.”
“Well, you see, that man Monte Mortimer heard them too and wants them for a new revue of his.”
“Inigo!” She gave a little scream of delight. Then her face fell. “You’re pulling my leg. You never saw Monte Mortimer.”
‚ÄúI did, I tell you, Susie.‚Äù And he told her what had happened in Mr.¬ÝPitsner‚Äôs room. She listened, breathless.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre made, my dear,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll be rolling soon. Marvellous! I am glad. And now the poor old Good Companions are busted. Yes, they are‚ÅÝ‚Äîbound to be.‚Äù Then, after a pause: ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll tell you straight, I hate to think of Ethel Georgia singing those numbers. You ought to have told him about me,‚Äù she added wistfully.
“I did, woman, I did,” roared Inigo in triumph. “I told him about nothing else.”
“You didn’t, did you? Did he say anything? Laugh, I suppose?”
“Laugh be blowed! I’d have given him laugh. What he said doesn’t matter. The point is he’s coming to the show tonight.”
“What!” This time it was a scream. She shook him hard. “Inigo, don’t be so daft. He’s not coming here.”
“He’s coming here to see the show tonight,” he repeated with great deliberation and emphasis. “As a matter of fact he’s coming to see you.”
“Monte Mortimer!”
‚ÄúThe great chief himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîif he is a great chief.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut how?‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhy?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, how did you do it? Oh, I don‚Äôt believe it.‚Äù
‚ÄúI just told him to come down, and he‚Äôs coming down. I‚Äôve reserved a seat for him. I may be feeble, but when I start‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, shut up about being feeble! I never meant it anyhow. Let me think a minute. No, I can’t think. Oh, I shall be all in bits. I’ve thought about something like this happening so many times that now I can’t bear it. I feel funny already. I shall make a mess of it.”
Inigo was alarmed. “Perhaps I ought not to have told you.”
“Of course you ought, silly. I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t. I shall be all right when the time comes. If I’m not, then I’m no good. Gosh, what a chance!” She went twirling away, then just as suddenly came back to him, looking thoughtful. “Suppose he doesn’t like me. That’ll be a ghastly washout, won’t it?”
“He’ll like you all right,” said Inigo. “If he doesn’t he’s a fathead, absolutely. And he won’t get any songs of mine. Under which king, Besonian, speak or die! That’s what I shall say to him.”
‚ÄúDarling! But look here, Inigo, I‚Äôm not going to let you tie those songs of yours to me like that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúListen to me. Never mind about that.‚Äù He caught hold of her hands. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry I couldn‚Äôt get back sooner for your party‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Don’t rub it in. I couldn’t help it, being furious, could I? You ought to have told me what you were going to do. Though it’s more exciting like this, I must say, Inigo.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the point. If nothing had happened, you‚Äôd have been disappointed and your birthday would have been mucked up, absolutely. As it is, I forgot your present‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“You didn’t. The great Monte’s my present. Marvellous present!”
“And I never wished you anything. It isn’t too late, is it? Many happy returns of the day, Susie.”
‚ÄúThank you.‚Äù She said this quietly, demurely. But then, with a glorious rush: ‚ÄúOh‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm an idiot‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôm so happy. Inigo, you are a darling.‚Äù And her arms were about his neck and she had kissed him, all in a flash.
For a minute or two he held her there. No, not for a minute or two. These were not minutes, to be briskly ticked away by the marble clock on the mantelpiece and then lost forever; the world of Time was far below, wrecked, a darkening ruin, forgotten; he had burst through into that enchanted upper air where suns and moons rise, stand still, and fall at the least whisper of the spirit. Let us leave him there. We must remember that he was a romantic and extravagant youth and very much in love‚ÅÝ‚Äîa young ass. Nor must we forget that such asses do have such moments. Isis still appears to them as she once appeared to that Golden Ass of the fable, and they still feed upon her roses and are transfigured.
IV
A Benefit Performance
I
The last time we were actually present when the Good Companions began a performance was on a Saturday night, the first real Night they had, at Sandybay, months ago. That was a tremendous occasion‚ÅÝ‚Äîor so it seemed then‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it was nothing to this, a Saturday night at the Gatford Hippodrome. Susie‚Äôs birthday, Susie‚Äôs benefit, with Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer due to arrive almost any time, and every seat in the house taken‚ÅÝ‚Äîeven the box. Yes, the Gatford Hippodrome had a box‚ÅÝ‚Äînot four boxes, not two boxes, but one solitary box. Its curtains were rather dingy, and it was difficult to make out whether its four little chairs were gilded or not, but nevertheless it was a proper box, ready to receive any great personage visiting the town who expressed a wish to attend a performance at the Hippodrome. And of course it could be booked, in the ordinary way. But as great personages rarely visited the Hippodrome and other people preferred to sit in comfort, this box was not often occupied, though professional friends of the manager would occasionally accept a seat in it for an odd hour. But now, on this great night, it had been taken. Nobody knew who had taken it, or at least nobody admitted having any knowledge. Thus, Jerry Jerningham might possibly have known something about it. He was not asked, partly because he was not there to be asked until there was barely time for him to change and make up for the opening chorus, and then again because no one imagined he would know anything about it. Mrs.¬ÝJoe might have asked him, because she was more pleased, excited, and curious about that box than anybody else. In her opinion, the box gave Tone to the whole evening. She looked forward to catching the gleam of a white dress front, to hurling a good chest note at a possible diamond tiara. And then again, as she pointed out, with a box you never never knew; anybody might be in that box, and anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîa solid contract for Bournemouth, for example‚ÅÝ‚Äîmight come out of it. She was interested, excited, and made no secret of the fact. Perhaps the prophetic instinct was working in the depths of her mind‚ÅÝ‚Äîall conscientious contraltos, after all, sound prophetic‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor it must be admitted that that box was important.
Indeed, everything is important now. The sands are running out, so that every grain has some significance.
That is why we must be there in time to see the curtain rise. We have done it before, but we must do it again because this is the last time the curtain will rise on the Good Companions. There will never be another opening chorus for them all after this one. That is what none of them knows, not even Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who has the deep notes of Cassandra herself. They are all eager to make this night a success, and the thought of the packed house recurs to them continually, warming them like wine. But most of them are still wondering about things. Miss Trant, having a word here, a word there, behind the scenes, still wonders what she is to do about it all, and now and then remembers the figure of a man in a car, a man so like the ghost that has long haunted the dim corridors of her mind. The older players are still wondering about the future, that Bournemouth offer. Inigo and Susie are troubled by thoughts of Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer. Jerry Jerningham obviously has concerns of his own, which he keeps to himself. Even Miss Mamie Potter keeps asking herself what these propose to do and whether she had better stick to them through the summer and then take a chance in town in the autumn. And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wonders what is going to happen to him, and what is happening in Canada, and what is happening in Bruddersford, for no news has trickled through from Ogden Street for some time. There they are then, all as eager and excited as you please but all busy wondering and wondering and planning a little. And not one of them guesses that this is the last time they will troop on together, that their semicircle is about to be broken forever, that already the powder has been heaped and the train set and fired.
They have crowded in from Mundley and Stort as well as from Gatford itself, and many of them have seen the show before and know who Susie is and why she is having a benefit. Mechanics, fitters, electricians, clerks, and cashiers from the motor works, with their wives and sweethearts; typists and milliners and elementary-school teachers; women who might be anybody‚Äôs wife or nobody‚Äôs; men who might at any moment be awarded a medal or given five years‚Äô penal servitude, who might be heading for the town council or the gutter; lads who gape and nudge one another and guffaw; girls who wriggle their shoulders, slap their companions, and giggle; quiet girls whose lives are as yet only a vague dream; decent young men who slip in and out of the works and their lodgings, always near a crowd and yet as lonely as Crusoes; jovial middle-aged fellows who earn good money and can eat anything, and their tired wives, who have been fighting, right up to six o‚Äôclock this very evening, the week‚Äôs long battle for cleanliness and respectability; wistful virgins who are eager to feast their eyes on the face of Jerry Jerningham, and amorous gentlemen who have a fancy for Miss Mamie Potter‚Äôs legs; people who ought to be in hospital, people who ought to be in prison, people who ought to be attending the Victoria Street Wesleyan Chapel concert, the Triangle Girl Guides Rally, the debate at the Mundley Y.M.C.A., the Gatford Cycling Club Whist Drive, people who ought to be helping their father in the shop, people who ought to be in the Blessed Isles, so long and hard have they laboured in this unblessed island; they are all here, staring, chattering, eating chocolates, reading football scores in the paper, turning over their programmes. And now, just when they are all tired of amusing themselves, out go the lights above and up come the footlights illuminating the lower folds of the curtain in the old enchanting way. Is the curtain going up now? No, they will play something first; they always do. There it goes: Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, Rumpty-dee-tidee. Some of the audience know this tune. It is a song called ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù and that good-looking young fellow, who dances, sings it. Is‚Äëern‚Äëtit lovely? And at this moment, as it comes softly twirling through the magically lighted curtain, the mischievous lilt of it working like leaven in the dark mass of the audience, it is lovely indeed, a rhapsody of love and idleness, news from another and brighter world than this in which we portion out our wages. It dances Gatford clean away; the streets, the factories and shops, the long rows of houses, the trams and lorries, the ugly little chapels and the furtive pubs, they tremble a little, they sway, they rock violently, and then off they go, jogging away into nothing, slipping forever round some vast unimaginable corner. A little louder now, as if in triumph. Nothing remains but clean earth and a blue spangle of stars, and the lilt and the beat and the Rumpty-dee-tidee pulsating in the velvet darkness. Louder still now, more triumphant. And up it comes, shaped and coloured anew by the sorcery of the flying crotchets and quavers, this other Gatford, shining and fair, a suburb of Old Cockayne, with fountains sprouting the alternate black and gold of Guinness and Bass, gold-flake and honeydew heaped in the streets, arcades of meat and pudding done to a turn, silk stockings and jumpers to be picked where you like, dances round every corner and a prize for everybody, goals to be scored at any hour of the day, girls like laughing and passionate queens, boys who would love you forever and always in evening dress, and children, swarms of them, rosy and fat, with never a white drawn face or a twisted limb, scampering everywhere, running and tumbling out of the happy houses, out of the depths of memory, out of the very grave.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ
Ah, that was good, that was. Took you back, took you out of yourself, took you somewhere, you didn‚Äôt know where. It deserves a clap. And tonight it‚Äôs getting one. The piano by itself now. The curtain‚Äôs going up. There they are, singing away, pretty as a picture. Give them another good clap. The two girls look lovely, don‚Äôt they? You can‚Äôt call that other one a girl; she‚Äôs getting on, she is; but she‚Äôs a fine singer for all that, a real good turn. But the two girls look lovely. That‚Äôs the new one, the one in the blue. But the other‚Äôs the one, her in the red, Susie Dean. It‚Äôs her that‚Äôs having the benefit. Make a cat laugh, the way she takes people off, but she‚Äôs nice and pretty too. Look at her smiling. That red dress just suits her, dark eyes and dark hair. Well-made too, that girl. She‚Äôll be married though, they always are. If she isn‚Äôt, she‚Äôll be marrying that nice-looking boy, Jerry they call him. Oh, he‚Äôs a good turn. Just watch his feet. And there‚Äôs the comic, the little one at the end, twisting his face about, Jimmy Nunn. He‚Äôll come on as a postman soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîand laugh, he‚Äôd make you die laughing! That tall one‚ÅÝ‚Äîno, the very long thin man, him with the eyebrows‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe plays the banjo and then he does conjuring. They say he‚Äôs played before the King and Queen or something like that. Quite a comic too, in his way, when he‚Äôs conjuring. That other one, with the big shoulders on him, is a singer. He usually starts them off. That‚Äôs right: ‚ÄúCourtney Brundit will sing Number Twenty-seven on the programme.‚Äù That‚Äôs him. And that young fellow at the piano can play all right, my word he can! It‚Äôs a gift to be able to play like that. They say he‚Äôs just married that new one, but of course you can‚Äôt believe everything you hear.
The curtain is up, the show has begun. It is time we left the audience and went behind the scenes. We shall never find our way there again, after this night.
II
The trouble began when Joe was singing, at the very opening of the programme. It was a cloud no larger than a man’s hand, but there it was. As usual, Joe was giving his audience, whom he apparently imagined to be a company of would-be navigators, some advice concerning the Deep, the Moi‑oi‑oighty Dee‑ee‑eep. Just as he was imploring them, for the fourth or fifth time, to Beeware (many Brave Hearts being asleep in this Deep), a horribly raucous and penetrating voice told him to “pur a sock in it.” It came, this voice, from the back of the pit, which was the cheapest part of the house, there being no gallery. And it raised a loud and jeering laugh from that quarter, though the rest of the audience immediately made shushing noises. Joe himself seemed to pay no attention to this voice; he went on with his song; but Inigo at the piano noticed that his great fists were clenched and that certain veins in his forehead were swelling ominously. Joe, it was clear, was very annoyed, as he had every right to be. Besides, it was not the first time that voice had jeered at them. It had been heard one or two nights before.
When Joe had finished his first song, he was warmly applauded, the audience‚ÅÝ‚Äîbless them!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbeing as usual all the more enthusiastic because some of their number had been rude enough to interrupt. But from that same place at the back there came boos and groans and ironic cheers and they were so prolonged that they outlasted the applause. Joe was furious. ‚ÄúBloody swine!‚Äù he muttered to Inigo, across the piano. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre at it again.‚Äù
‚ÄúLadies and gentlemen,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúby special request‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄòThe Trumpeter.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“Shurr up!” the voice jeered, before anybody else could make a sound.
Some people laughed. The remainder indignantly shushed again and then clapped.
“If the gentleman at the back doesn’t shut up,” roared Joe, his honest face inflamed even through the makeup, “he’ll be soon made to shut up.”
“Steady, Joe boy, steady!” whispered Jimmy, who was sitting just behind him. Most of the others had left the stage, as they usually did during an individual act.
The gentleman at the back and his friends signified their contempt for this threat, but other people in the audience, not having paid their money to listen to the town roughs, welcomed it. “Turn him out,” they cried. For a minute or two there was quite an uproar in the place. Joe grimly waited until there was quiet again, and then began his series of apparently idiotic questions to a trumpeter.
Meanwhile, Mrs.¬ÝJoe, in the wings, was very agitated indeed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm convinced now,‚Äù she declared, ‚Äúthat it‚Äôs all a put-up affair. Before, I wasn‚Äôt, though I had my suspicions. I know what you‚Äôre going to say, Susie and you, Miss Trant, that some pros always think it‚Äôs a put-up affair if there‚Äôs ever a bit of booing or stamping. And so they do, and very silly too I call it. But there‚Äôs a Limit.‚Äù
“It’s disgusting,” said Miss Trant, “and we’ve certainly had more than our share of it this week.”
‚ÄúPerhaps it‚Äôll stop soon,‚Äù said Susie hopefully, still busy with thoughts of Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer. ‚ÄúThey may settle down when the show‚Äôs got going.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd they may not,‚Äù retorted Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who perhaps did not like the suggestion that the show had not got going when her husband was actually on the stage. ‚ÄúIt sounds bad to me, and put-up. And whatever will those people in the box think! Booking it specially like that and coming in evening dress and then hearing such‚ÅÝ‚Äîsuch‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDevilry!‚Äù For there were people in the box now, and Mrs.¬ÝJoe had caught sight of a white shirt front and a bare arm on the ledge.
“Well, if there’s any more of it,” Miss Trant announced with decision, “I’m going to have them turned out. It’s vile and unpardonable, and I’m not going to have it.”
‚ÄúIf they spoil it for me tonight,‚Äù Susie said fiercely, ‚ÄúI‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll kill them, the beasts.‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt say that, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúAnd if there‚Äôs to be anything of that sort, Joe will do it. Just listen to that! The temper he‚Äôll be in now, it won‚Äôt bear thinking of. It‚Äôll take me all my time to keep him quiet. You‚Äôve no idea what Joe‚Äôs like when he‚Äôs thoroughly roused,‚Äù she added, with a droll mingling of shame and pride. ‚ÄúTake a peep at him now, my dear. He‚Äôs fairly bursting.‚Äù
Miss Mamie Potter strolled up. She was on next. “I say,” she said, turning her round features from one to the other of them, “what’s up? They’re not giving out the bird, are they? If they’re starting that, I’m through. I shall just walk off. I will. I can’t stand it.”
“If there is any trouble while you are on, Miss Potter,” Miss Trant told her, “don’t take any notice of it. I’ll have it stopped somehow or other, if I’ve got to go and do it myself.”
“That’s all right,” replied Mamie dubiously, “but I’m not used to it.”
“Neither are we,” Susie put in, like lightning. “And I’ll tell you something for your own good. Monte Mortimer’s going to be in front tonight.”
“Monte Mortimer! The big revue man! That’s likely, isn’t it? I’ve heard those yarns before, Miss Dean,” Mamie scoffed.
“All right then, don’t believe me.” And then, in reply to the wondering glances of the other two, she went on: “It’s true. Inigo went up to town today, saw him, and persuaded him to come and see us tonight.”
‚ÄúWell, I never did,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe gasped. ‚ÄúNot that he‚Äôs any use to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîor Joe, of course. But it‚Äôs your Chance, Susie. What did I tell you, only the other day? You see, you never know.‚Äù
“I say, d’you mean it?” Miss Potter was apparently convinced now. “Where’s he sitting? Is he here now?”
“Fourth row of the stalls,” Susie replied shortly. “I know because Inigo showed me the seat before we started. He’s not come yet, but he’s coming all right. Inigo got a wire after he had started.”
“And my God, I’ve got to go on now. That’s a nice trick, anyhow,” cried Miss Potter, looking angrily at Susie. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I hadn’t a chance. Nobody’s trying to crab you. He’ll see plenty of you before the night’s out. Lord, listen to that! Joe’ll be furious.”
He was. They were applauding him loudly enough, but you could plainly hear the catcalls and booing from the back.
‚ÄúHear that?‚Äù he growled, as he joined them, and Miss Potter, looking very uneasy, got ready to take his place. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs somebody at the back there ‚Äôud get such a pug in the lug‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“It’s bad and I don’t doubt it’s deliberate, put-up,” his wife interrupted, putting a hand on his arm, “but don’t let’s us have vulgarities. We can be ladies and gentlemen, I say, even if they can’t.”
“And I say they’d get such a pug in the lug if I could get at ’em. They’d better look out, that lot. I’ve a good mind to go and stand there when some of you are on, and keep ’em quiet one way or the other.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve a good mind to do nothing of the sort,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe indignantly. ‚ÄúStarting bother like that, Joe! You don‚Äôt know how it might all end up. And Susie here with such a Chance!‚Äù
“Chance?”
“Of a Lifetime,” she told him, and then hastily explained why this was a night of nights.
Miss Mamie Potter was not faring any better than Joe. Indeed, it was worse for her. She had not much of a voice, and very soon this was pointed out to her by the back of the pit. By the time she had struggled through to the end of one feeble little song, Jimmy signalled to her not to sing any more but to do her dance and then finish the act. It is not easy to interrupt a dance but the roughs at the back did what they could. Miss Potter really could dance, and her beautiful flashing legs provoked a fine outburst of applause, but still the row at the back could not be drowned. And the audience was growing restless.
Jimmy dashed off while Miss Potter was taking her call. “We’ll do that Shopping concerted number next,” he cried. “Must do something noisy. Can’t you tell them to stop that row, Miss Trant, please?”
“I’m going to, now,” she replied. And she went, there and then. The manager was not to be found anywhere in the building, and nobody appeared to know where he was. There were only two men attendants for the auditorium, and neither of these was young, strong, and determined. The man in the pit, a decrepit fellow, protested that he was doing his best to stop the constant interruptions. “But they’re a tough lot, Miss,” he whispered. “I give you my word. Don’t know what they’re doing here at all, I don’t.”
“Send out for a policeman,” she said.
“Ought to be a bobby about,” he replied doubtfully. “Usually looks in, but don’t seem to have come this way tonight. However, there’s one at the corner could look in, dare say. Keep ’em quiet, p’raps, if they saw him.”
Five minutes later, a policeman arrived and stood just behind the noisy fellows, after letting them know, by a familiar ‚ÄúNow then, there! Give order!‚Äù that the Law itself in all its blue and silver majesty was taking charge. It happened though that there was little need of him. The concerted item they were giving now was a noisy rollicking affair that offered great scope to Susie and Jimmy for droll byplay. And they hardly begun singing the first verse, which was a mere excuse for the drolleries that came after, when Susie remarked a stir in front. Someone had just arrived, was finding his place in the fourth row, the end seat on the left of the gangway. It must be‚ÅÝ‚Äîcould only be‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe great Monte Mortimer. Susie flashed a glance at Inigo, who lifted an eyebrow in reply. For a minute or two, she felt horrible, wobbly on her legs and hot and dry in the mouth; everything went out of her head, words, business, everything; and she felt she could never be amusing on the stage again. Then a huge friendly laugh came over the footlights to her from the audience, tickled by some bit of business she had gone through quite mechanically. And then all her nervousness fell away from her, leaving her excited somewhere inside but feeling clear, masterful, full of wonderful tricks. She hurled herself into the little scene, became a laughing whirlwind of fun. She acted everybody, Jimmy included, clean off the stage. All the silly shopgirls she had ever seen, the girls who sniffed, the girls who were short, sagging, and wistful, the girls who were tall, haughty, and spoke through their noses, the girls who knew nothing and the girls who knew everything, were vividly present in her mind, and in a happy fury of inspiration she brought out the lot, created and destroyed them in a few seconds. The audience laughed; they roared; they leapt at her. Even those people in the box‚ÅÝ‚Äîand who were those people in the box?‚ÅÝ‚Äîseemed to be laughing, leaning forward; and once she thought she heard a voice she knew. As for Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, she could not see him and did not know what was happening to him; but if he did not like this, he could do the other thing.
“Must keep it going now,” cried Jimmy, as they bustled off. “You next, Jerry. Keep ’em going, boy. Show ’em what you can do.”
And Jerry did. He slipped round the corner for them. While he sang it, there was nothing there but a good little tune, but once he began dancing it was soon packed with meanings that had escaped both words and music. His long graceful legs and twinkling witty feet held the crowd in thrall. When finally he appeared to hurl away the last shreds of restraint, capering crazily and yet still keeping it all as deft and neat as surgery, and Inigo tossing his lock of hair over the piano was joined by Jimmy with his drums, Mitcham with his banjo, and the others as chorus, the house rose at him. A last double kick‚ÅÝ‚Äîpom-pom‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he was standing there, glittering a little and gasping, smiling at them. They pounded and thundered their approval. He bowed, flashed a smiling glance at the box, bowed again, then retired. Back he had to come, and for another delicious five minutes his feet told them how amusing life was. Another storm, and this time the girl attendant who looked after the stalls came forward and handed up some small parcels, one of which apparently demanded another smiling glance at the box, to say nothing of innumerable bows to the rest of the house. The others in the wings, clapping too, caught a glimpse of a gold cigarette-case. The other tributes were boxes of cigarettes and chocolates, customary offerings on the altar of hopeless passion. But that cigarette-case did not suggest Gatford. Even the most devoted typist or shopgirl could not have given him that lovely glittering thing. Jerry, however, who appeared to be becoming more mysterious every minute, rushed down to his dressing-room, and offered no explanations.
It had been arranged that Susie should go on next. She had begged Jimmy, whose original programme was now in ruins, for the next single act‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwhile the going was good,‚Äù she said‚ÅÝ‚Äîand as this was her night, he could not refuse.
They clapped when they heard her name announced, and clapped still harder, cheered even, when she actually appeared. She gave them, with a wealth of byplay, that song of Inigo‚Äôs about going home, and they loved every word and note and gesture of it all. Most of them had seen her before. She was the youngest, a favourite, and this was her night, so that there was every excuse for giving her a great reception. But if they had never set eyes on her before, it would have been just the same. This was indeed her night. She was entertaining them all at a birthday party. They were all old friends together, it seemed, and only because she happened to be the prettiest and gayest girl there, she was in the limelight and they were staring and listening in the dark. That first tight ‚ÄúNow or never‚Äù feeling had left her long ago; she knew the great Monte was there, but she no longer bothered her head about him; and she carried everything before her, swept everything dull and heavy clean out of the world, with her gigantic rush of high spirits. Inigo, vamping idly at the piano, was amazed, almost frightened. This was Susie; everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe adorable everything he knew so well‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas there, but she was larger and brighter than life. The girl herself was lost in this public. Susie, this tremendous Susie-for-everybody, who was so obviously ready to take possession of any stage, any audience, to charge into the very centre of that daft wonderland of the morning and early afternoon, that world of vast electric signs and photographers and interviewers and press agents and enormous cars and expensive lunches for everybody in glittering noisy rooms. All of it seemed hers now by right. She had only to lift a finger and they would all be gathering round her and up would go the spangled lights, spelling her name in the crazed empyrean of Shaftesbury Avenue. In a flash he saw even the formidable Ethel Georgia slinking away, a little faded, tired, when she appeared. It seemed to him that that wonderlandish world was closing round her already. He did not know whether he liked it or not. Something hurt, though there was sweetness in the wound. One moment he felt he wanted to stop playing, to seize her by the arm and rush her away into the dark, just to sit in a tram with her, take her back to dingy lodgings, drop into the old round of Sunday trains and dry sandwiches and little halls and companionable shabbiness. The next moment he wanted to go on and on, to play and play until she had laughed and pirouetted herself into being everything she thought she wanted to be, and all the good things were heaped before her, and he was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, dodging about somewhere in the background, looking on at the spectacle of her gigantic, her immortal happiness. But then again‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut what then? Oh, he didn‚Äôt know. He seemed to have been up and doing for several weeks without a break of comforting brute senselessness, good old sleep. He must be tired. But he didn‚Äôt feel tired, he felt drunk, a trifle mad. Tiddly-iddly-om-pom, tiddly-iddly-om. Quite mad, in fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely. Tom-pom.
Susie gave one encore, she gave two encores, and even then the riot was not subdued. There were some little parcels for her too, and some flowers, including a bouquet‚ÅÝ‚Äîa real Grand Opera sort of bouquet, something undreamed of in the pierrot world‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was handed down from the mysterious box. She tried to say something, but was far too excited and breathless. Jimmy hustled the others on for a concerted number and left her happy and gasping in the wings, where she received the congratulations of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúI ought to go and sit down and be quiet in the dressing-room, Jess lad,‚Äù Susie told him, ‚Äúbut I just can‚Äôt. Look at this. Isn‚Äôt it sweet? Oh!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm nearly bursting. What a night!‚Äù
‚ÄúChampion!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, rising to heights of enthusiasm hardly known in Bruddersford. ‚ÄúEh, that were a right treat, Soos lass. An‚Äô they tell me ther‚Äôs one o‚Äô t‚Äôbig men o‚Äô the the‚Äëater business in t‚Äôhouse.‚Äù
“There is,” cried Susie. “And I expect him to come round any minute and say, ‘Miss Dean, I’ve been looking for you for years. Open a week on Tuesday at two hundred and fifty pounds a week. If that’s not enough, let me know.’ Something like that. What d’you say?” But before he could say anything, she waltzed him round a few times.
‚ÄúSo that‚Äôs it, is it?‚Äù he said, when she had let him go. ‚ÄúAnd what about poor owd Good Companions? We‚Äôll nivver see you ner more, unless we go up on a day trip and pay to go in. Never you mind, Soos lass,‚Äù he went on, when it appeared she was about to break in, ‚Äúyou look after yersen and if yon feller does offer you ten pound a week to go up to London or owt like that, tak‚Äô it on. So long as there‚Äôs nowt shameless about it, coming on naked and suchlike. You‚Äôll ha‚Äô to mind there, I‚Äôm thinking, for they‚Äôre a bit of a foul lot i‚Äô London, they tell me. But if it‚Äôs decent, tak‚Äô it. Eh, I‚Äôd right miss you if you went, I would an‚Äô all‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Darling!” cried Susie, who had been ready to laugh and cry all at once for some time, and now felt more like it than ever. She took hold of his arm and squeezed it hard. “I think you’re marvellous, Jess lad, and I’d miss you too. Let’s run away to Canada together, shall we?”
‚ÄúEh‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîa very long-drawn-out one this time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúther‚Äôs nowt I‚Äôd like better. We would have a do.‚Äù He stopped for a minute to contemplate rapturously the ‚Äúdo‚Äù they would have, before returning to the world of fact. ‚ÄúBut listen here. Never you mind about t‚ÄôGood Companions. Tak‚Äô what‚Äôs offered if yer can benefit yersen. ‚ÄôCos ther‚Äôs bound to be a bust-up i‚Äô t‚Äôparty afore so long. Summat‚Äôs going to happen. I can feel it coming. Ay, you can laugh, but I‚Äôve a right knack that way. When t‚ÄôUnited won t‚ÄôCup, I said they would right from t‚Äôstart that year, and they all laughed at me at t‚Äômill, but I wer right. An‚Äô I‚Äôll tell you another thing,‚Äù he added, taking breath.
‚ÄúGo on, Mr.¬ÝOld Moore,‚Äù she said, laughing at him.
“I thowt ther wer going to be a right bit o’ bother here tonight. An’ I’m not so certain it’s all ower yet, either.”
“You mean that lot at the back?”
“That’s right. I’ve had a look at ’em and wer talking to t’owd chap that looks after t’pit, an’ yon lot’s game for owt. Ther’s summat wrong there, let me tell yer. I can’t mak’ it out at all, I can’t. Here, Jimmy’s wanting you to join in, afore t’interval.”
So Susie went on again and helped to bring about a rousing curtain. Jimmy had cut the first half, perhaps in the hope that the roughs at the back of the pit would clear out at the interval and not come back, though for the last half-hour or more they had not made a sound. When the house lights went up, after the curtain had fallen, Inigo, peeping through with the excited Susie, had just time to see Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer leaving his seat. Was he coming round to see them? Or was he slipping out for a drink? As the minutes passed and he did not appear, Inigo came to the conclusion that Monte had wanted a drink, a cheerful conclusion compared with Susie‚Äôs, which was that he had retired for good and all, in disgust. Just before it was time to begin again, however, they saw him back in his seat, and Susie was able to have a peep at his distinguished Assyrian features.
“He doesn’t look bad,” she remarked. “I’d like to scream at him ‘Well, what about it?’ Wonder what he’s thinking. Doesn’t look as if he’s thinking anything. Look, he’s yawning. Oh, don’t yawn. Fancy coming here and yawning!”
“Damn cheek, I call it,” said Inigo. “He’s probably eaten too much. He had enough lunch for five, and I’ll bet he’s been eating and drinking ever since.”
‚ÄúPig! No, I won‚Äôt say that. You never know, he might sort of‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat d‚Äôyou call it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîknow what I‚Äôm saying. Please, Mr.¬ÝMortimer, I want a nice fat engagement. Thank you. Oh, this is awful! I feel sick. If he doesn‚Äôt do anything about it, everything‚Äôs spoilt, isn‚Äôt it? I mean it‚Äôll be ghastly just going on in the old way. I wish it was time to begin again. I‚Äôm not going to look at him any more. There‚Äôs nobody in that box now. I wonder who they are. Marvellous bouquet they gave me, and no name on it at all. It‚Äôs a very handsome young millionaire‚ÅÝ‚Äînot too young, you know, not like you, Inigo‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho‚Äôs fallen madly in love with me. Hello, here we are.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Jimmy, beaming at them all, ‚ÄúI thought we were in for it, one time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúThought somebody else was,‚Äù growled Joe. ‚ÄúJust let me catch one of them fellows, that‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Those fellows, Joe, not them fellows,” his wife told him. “And you’ll do nothing of the kind.”
“It’s all right now, though,” Jimmy continued. “Got ’em all going in great style.”
‚ÄúA riot,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham observed gravely.
And a riot it proved to be, though not the kind of riot mentioned in the columns of The Stage. When the lights went down again, all the people in the pit were back in their places, but the policeman was not there. He had seen nothing to worry about, and so he had majestically departed during the interval, leaving behind him‚ÅÝ‚Äîalas!‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fine chance of promotion.
“Shurr-up!”
“Oorder, please!”
“Sh-sh-sh.”
“Gerr-outcher!”
“Give order, please!”
“Send ’em out!”
“Sh-sh-sh.”
“Give order, gentlemen, if you please!”
“Ow! Ah-oo-er! Pur a sock in it!”
‚Äú‚Ķ¬Ýbehalf of my fellow-artistes, like to appeal to those members of the audience at the back there to keep quiet (Hear, hear!), like them to remember that other people have paid their money and want to hear the show properly‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ (Turn ‚Äôem out!)‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ fair play‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ British sportsmanship‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ thanking you one and all‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù
The audience loudly applauded this speech of Jimmy‚Äôs, but the noise was even worse afterwards. Poor Mrs.¬ÝJoe, imploring the Red Sun to sink in-toe the West (just as if she thought it was uncertain in its movements for once, and feared some cosmic catastrophe), could hardly be heard, for the people who were indignant at the constant interruptions were as noisy as the people who interrupted. In vain she paused between verses, a figure erect and contemptuous, the Duchess of Dorking standing before a revolutionary tribunal. The silence she waited for never arrived. With a glance of despair not unmixed with pleading, addressed to the shirt front and bare arm in the box, she plunged into her second song. She was a Highland lassie now, a passionate tragic creature of the moors and the glens, waiting and watching for our old acquaintance, Angus MacDonald. Would he or would he not, she asked in her deepest chest notes, come from his camp o‚Äôer the sea? Did she hear the call of the pibroch? Apparently she did, though to everybody else it sounded like the last despairing bleat (‚ÄúOrder, gents, please!‚Äù) of the aged attendant in the pit. She also heard the marching of men, but everybody else heard something like this too, a stamping of feet at the back. Yes, it was Angus Her Own coming home from the war. She asserted this triumphantly at the top of her voice, and even then she could hardly be heard. It seemed as if Angus was bringing the war home with him. Pale, trembling, she stalked off tragically at the end of her song, and did not return to face the uproar, though most of it was honest and admiring applause.
Meanwhile, it was taking Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd all their time to restrain Joe in the wings from descending into the auditorium and ‚Äúknocking a few blasted heads together.‚Äù When Mrs.¬ÝJoe came off, however, he had to attend to her, for after smiling wildly and elaborately shrugging her shoulders and raising her hands, she suddenly burst into tears. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve not been so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso‚ÅÝ‚Äîso insulted since that awful time at Grimsby,‚Äù she sobbed, ‚Äúwhen they were all drunk‚ÅÝ‚Äîand threw the fish.‚Äù Joe, muttering that somebody was going to get something worse than fish, gave her all the support of his stalwart person, and finally she was persuaded to rest in her dressing-room, where Miss Trant administered eau de cologne and soothing words. Four of them were now struggling fairly successfully through a noisy quartette, full of comic ‚Äúbusiness.‚Äù The attendant in the pit had given up his task of restoring order in despair. One or two members of the audience, pugnacious men, had attempted to take over his duties, with the result that there were loud arguments at the back for some time, and once or twice the sound of a slight scuffle. The remainder of the audience was becoming very restive indeed. One of the loudest and most indignant members was no other than our friend, Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, whose professional sense of decorum was outraged by these constant interruptions, as well they might be, for he had heard nothing like it for years. If a few first-nighters in the gallery ventured a timid hiss or boo at Mr.¬ÝMortimer‚Äôs productions, he filled the papers next day with wild talks of conspiracies and terrible threats. Now, his was one of the loudest of the hushing voices, and every now and then he half rose from his seat and looked round, as if he were inclined to take charge of the proceedings himself.
‚ÄúLeave it to me, Jimmy,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham whispered, with all the confidence of a man who has been four times round the world. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve managed tougher crowds than this. Let‚Äôs put on my conjuring act, with you gagging in the house.‚Äù
There was something to be said for this. It meant that Jimmy would pretend to be a very rude member of the audience, who from the back of the pit would carry on an argument with Mr.¬ÝMitcham who would finally ask him to step on to the stage, along with some other bona fide members of the audience, to ‚Äúwatch him closely.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham was an old hand, and was clever at getting laughs at the expense of his assistants from the audience. This might do the trick, creating order out of deliberate disorder. Jimmy had some misgivings, but thought it was worth trying, and off he went to change his costume and then sneak round to the back, leaving Mr.¬ÝMitcham in possession of the stage. Mr.¬ÝMitcham began by playing the banjo, but soon gave that up. Joe brought on his conjuring apparatus for him, and the two of them started gagging.
‚ÄúI shall now require a few members of the audience,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham announced, in his harsh deep drawl, ‚Äúto assist me and to prove to you, ladies and gentlemen, there is absolutely no deception.‚Äù
This was the cue for Jimmy, at the back, to open the comic dialogue. But something went wrong, apparently, for all that could be heard from the stage was a real argument. Then Jimmy’s voice was raised in genuine protest: “Here, half a minute, you chaps!” he was crying. “Here, what are you doing? Let go.”
‚ÄúA few members of the audience, please,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham was repeating.
This was where chaos broke in, and an ordered narrative, even if it were possible, would no longer fit the occasion. There was a movement towards the stage, vague in the darkness. ‚ÄúHouse lights!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham hissed, but they did not come on. There was a door at the right of the proscenium that led directly through a short flight of stone steps bringing you into the wings. It seemed some people from the back were making for that door. There was also a central gangway running through both pit and stalls, there being no barrier, only a thick cord, between them, and down this gangway came several figures, now moving forward, now scuffling. And Jimmy‚Äôs voice was heard from this group, still raised in protest. So far, so good, but now comes chaos, bewildering alternations of light and darkness, hurtling fragments of event.
“Let go, can’t you!”
“ ’Ere, what’s the ruddy idea?”
“Turn ’em out.”
“Lights up, there, you fools!”
“Oh, will you!”
And shouts from some of the men and screams from some of the women. There seemed to be a struggle going on in the gangway, not far from the stage now. Jimmy was in it.
Then a large figure sprang up from nowhere, charged into the scuffling group, and sent one or two men flying. It was Joe. “Oh, you get out of it,” he was heard to bellow. And then somebody did get out of it. There was a crack; there was a thud; somebody had taken a full punch from the furious Joe. More shouts, screams, and cracks. That unconscious somebody, it seemed, was being lifted out of the way. Then the lights came on, uncertainly, as if they did not like it.
‚ÄúMy God!‚Äù cried Inigo, starting up from the piano. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs Monte Mortimer.‚Äù And it was. Mr.¬ÝMortimer had interfered in the dark; he had got in the way; he had received Joe‚Äôs punch; and he was now beyond those voices, where there was peace. We shall never meet him again. Farewell, Monte!
Somebody was shouting for the curtain to be dropped; twenty people were roaring for the police; and about a hundred more were shouting at random. Out went the house lights again, suddenly this time. Next minute, the stage lights vanished too. The whole place was in darkness, a black pandemonium.
‚ÄúHey!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had cried, as three or four of them came clattering up the steps and round the corner. A rough lot they looked, too. ‚ÄúWhat you doing here?‚Äù
“Coming on the stage,” one of them had replied. But another had just put his lip out and growled “Gairrr away!”
“Nar, tak’ your hook,” he had told them, angrily.
Then he got a shove in the back that sent him banging against one of them, a big one. This fellow gave him another shove that sent him spinning. Then all the lights went out. Somebody had got at the switchboard. He jumped forward, bumped into a fellow, got a crack on the head, but was able to give somebody something to be getting on with. The stagehand was shouting somewhere. So were a lot of other people. He charged at the switchboard, but people and things got in the way. Then he found himself grappling with somebody, got tripped up, went flying in the dark, with several people falling over him.
“Fire! Fire!” a voice shouted, not far away.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Innumerable voices took it up, voices rising to screams.
Desperately Mr.¬ÝOakroyd picked himself up. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no bloody fire,‚Äù he was yelling, in despair.
“No fire,” somebody was shouting on the stage. “Keep your seats please!”
The uproar now was terrific, horrible. There were huge crashes all over the place. “Get them lights on,” roared a voice. “The lights, the lights!” And from further away: “Fire! Fy‑yer! Fy‑yerr!”
Another dash for the switchboard. Somebody else making for it too. Joe. ‚ÄúCome on, Joe, Joe lad,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Somebody there. Two of them. ‚ÄúTak‚Äô that, yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî,‚Äù from Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who landed one in first, this time. The other fellow gave a yell, his companion a grunt, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grabbed a switch or two. The lights that came on now showed Joe leaping after one of the men; the other had dropped. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dashed on to the stage, to shout that there was no fire. The place was like a madhouse. Everybody was shouting and screaming, pushing and struggling. ‚ÄúKeep your seats!‚Äù they shouted from the stage, he and Jimmy and Morton Mitcham and Inigo, with the women of the party beside them now, pale, amazed. But he had not been there a minute before all the lights but two or three, high up and giving the merest glimmer, went out again. That switchboard. He collided in the wings with a woman who had just dashed up the steps from the front, a large woman, screaming something‚ÅÝ‚Äîsounded like ‚ÄúJerry.‚Äù Must have been too, because the next moment, Jerry Jerningham appeared from nowhere, was immediately grabbed by this large woman, and whisked off, somewhere at the back. From somewhere too there came a series of crashes. Things were being overturned. Electric bulbs were going too. Chaps came jumping out of the big shadows, making off. They were still shouting ‚ÄúFire!‚Äù somewhere. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd got some more lights on. There was a smell of burning too; it seemed to be coming over from the other side. He called to the others and hurried across. Plenty of smoke. It seemed to be coming from that pile of old curtain stuff there. He and Inigo got two extinguishers on it. No flame, but the smoke was worse, blinding and choking. Something rickety there too, wobbling a bit. Joe was shouting down from the top. He heard the swift rustle behind him. The curtain was coming down, moving by itself, it seemed, for he could not see anybody lowering it. A chap went tearing past. Wasn‚Äôt that Joe coming down, still shouting? These big side pieces‚ÅÝ‚Äîpart of the theatre‚Äôs standard set, and very old‚ÅÝ‚Äîdidn‚Äôt seem any too safe. Here, they‚Äôd better look out. Something gave a nasty shake.
“Look out!” he yelled to them at the back. “Get out of t’way, sharp!” Miss Trant, Jimmy, Susie, with her arms full of music, were still there. He shouted again, ran forward, waving his arms at them.
You would have thought the whole theatre had fallen in, it fell with such a crash, that piece of scenery. Susie and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were untouched. Jimmy was sitting on the stage, his head in his hands. But Miss Trant was lying there, white and still. The police were coming now, were actually here. There was the clamour of a fire-engine coming from somewhere outside. Miss Trant never moved as they bent over her, crying her name.
III
‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôve made a benefit of this all right,‚Äù said the Inspector grimly. His audience was composed of Inigo and Joe, still in their stage costumes, which were torn and filthy, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, all bruised and blackened, and two members of the staff of the Gatford Hippodrome. The rest had gone, most of them between half an hour and an hour ago. It was nearly an hour since Miss Trant had been taken away to the hospital, with Jimmy, still groaning, in attendance.
‚ÄúWhat do they say at the hospital‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout Miss Trant?‚Äù Inigo asked, shakily. He had never felt more tired in all his life. He could not stand on his feet any longer. He felt dizzy, sick.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm getting that through for you,‚Äù replied the Inspector. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll have a word in a minute or two. You chaps had better be getting along home now. You‚Äôre played out, I can see that. Meantime, I‚Äôve got to be making out my report.‚Äù He looked about him with a sardonic eye. The fire had not done very much damage; indeed, it was almost out when the fire-brigade arrived. Nevertheless, the Gatford Hippodrome looked a wreck. The stampede had left its traces on the body of the theatre; and the stage was a blackened and watery ruin. ‚ÄúThis part of it‚Äôs nothing,‚Äù the Inspector went on, ‚Äúthough I don‚Äôt say it isn‚Äôt bad enough. Nobody‚Äôll be giving a turn here for some time. It‚Äôs life though, not property, that matters. There might have been dozens of lives lost‚ÅÝ‚Äîdozens, yes, scores‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith people all trying to get out at once. Matter of fact, there isn‚Äôt any so far, and doesn‚Äôt look like being any. Lucky, I‚Äôll tell you, very lucky. Seven people injured, that‚Äôs all the figure I‚Äôve got‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs in the audience, not counting your two.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud ha‚Äô been all nowt, Inspector,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly, ‚Äúif they hadn‚Äôt ha‚Äô gone an‚Äô shouted ‚ÄòFire!‚Äô like that. I knew what it ‚Äôud be. We tried to stop ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“But there was a fire,” said the Inspector.
“Nay, ther wasn’t, not when they were shouting. It come after, did t’fire, and it were nowt when it did come. Me an’ him put most on it out oursens, easy.”
“That’s true,” said Inigo wearily.
“Well, who started it all?” said the Inspector.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve told yer,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúChaps ‚Äôat came from back o‚Äô t‚Äôpit started it all. Turned t‚Äôlights off to begin wi‚Äô, and it must ha‚Äô been them as shouted ‚ÄòFire!‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“Sure of it,” said Joe, and explained what happened to him when all the trouble first began.
“We’ll have to look into this,” said the Inspector dubiously. “Pity they got away, that’s all. Nothing to work on at all.”
‚ÄúNay, you‚Äôve got one on ‚Äôem, t‚Äôchap Joe an‚Äô me were sitting on so long,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHey, Sergeant, didn‚Äôt you tak‚Äô yon chap wi‚Äô t‚Äôred scarf? He were one on ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“That’s right, sir,” said the sergeant, coming up. “We got him all right. It’s Tulley.”
“Oh, it’s Tulley, is it? We know him all right. An old friend of ours, Tulley is. What’s he got to say?”
“Knows nothing about it, sir. Happened to be in the audience he says, and was getting out this way.”
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs lyin‚Äô,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd declared.
“We’ll see about that,” replied the Inspector, who was still busy taking stock of the situation. He poked about for a few minutes and made some notes, while the tattered remnants of the Good Companions looked on listlessly. They said nothing, for there seemed to be nothing to say now until they had had news from the hospital. At last, however, a policeman arrived with the message, which he delivered into the Inspector’s ear as if it were a state secret.
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs not so bad,‚Äù said the Inspector, turning to them. ‚ÄúIn fact, it‚Äôs good. The lady‚Äôs suffering from shock and a fractured arm, that‚Äôs all. No need for anybody to worry‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
They gave huge sighs of relief.
‚ÄúAnd your other friend‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe little man, Nunn‚ÅÝ‚Äîonly got a crack on the head. They‚Äôre keeping him there overnight, but he‚Äôll probably be out tomorrow or the day after. He‚Äôs all right, though there won‚Äôt be any song-and-dance for him for a week or two, I should say.‚Äù
Inigo found himself giggling in a helpless sort of way. Everything had been rather crazy for some time now, of course, but still he didn’t want to giggle about it.
“You change your clothes and get to bed, my boy,” said the Inspector. “Have a bite of food and a drink of something and then turn in, quick. You chaps too. Off you go. You can’t do any more here. And, I say, don’t leave the town until I’ve seen you again. I’ve got your addresses, haven’t I? All right then, pop off.”
They had changed and were just straggling off, like a little company of shipwrecked sailors, when they met Susie, who looked like a fantastic little ghost as she came through the stage door. She was still wearing her stage costume, though she had a big coat over it, and there were traces of makeup on her face, a pale ruin of rouge and tear stains.
“Have you heard?” she cried, and when they said they had, she explained she had just come from the hospital. “It’s not so bad, is it?” she said, smiling wanly.
‚ÄúBetter ner like,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd agreed.
‚ÄúMrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs waiting for you at the digs, Joe,‚Äù she went on. ‚ÄúShe told me to tell you. And you‚Äôd to hurry up because she was going to see there was something hot for supper.‚Äù
‚ÄúTher should be a bit o‚Äô summat for me an‚Äô all,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd contemplatively. ‚ÄúI hadn‚Äôt thowt owt about it, but I‚Äôm right peckish nar. Happen ther‚Äôll be a bit o‚Äô meat-and-tater pie warmed up. Yon landlady o‚Äô mine is great on meat-and-tater pie.‚Äù
“Let’s keep out of the main street,” said Susie, first slipping a hand inside Joe’s arm, then taking the expectant arm, Inigo’s, on the other side, and squeezing them both a little. “We don’t want anybody to see us, do we?” They trudged on in silence down the gloomy side-street. Doors were being slammed with a kind of savage finality. Somewhere not far away, a hoarse reveller was shouting:
“ ’E’s a dee-ar old pal,
Ja-holly old pal,
But ’e opens ’is mouth tew wi‑ide.”
It was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had just been considering for the first time in true perspective, the whole daft evening, who broke the silence. ‚ÄúWell, by gow!‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúNar who‚Äôd ha‚Äô thowt‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But he was not allowed to say any more. “Don’t start,” said Susie hastily. “Just keep quiet, Jess lad. It’s been a mess, an awful mess. I’ve cried enough tonight, I don’t want to cry any more. And I don’t want to talk about it now. There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it all next week.”
“Absolutely,” said Inigo wearily.
“I dare say,” said Joe. “Never mind, Susie. What’s going to happen next week anyhow?”
“God knows!”
“I’m sorry, lass. I’ll say ner more. I’ll go on thinking about my bit o’ meat-and-tater pie. We’re not dead yet, though I seem to be stiff’ning a bit. Summat’ll turn up.”
So they went trudging on, as quiet as the four shadows in their grotesque dance on the pavement, lengthening and dwindling between the street lamps.
V
Long, and Full of Salvage Work
I
“Well, well!” cried the voice, though softly. “Well, well!”
“Is it the same?” asked the nurse.
“The very same,” the voice replied. It had lost some of the deep rough burr it had had years ago, this voice, but there was no mistaking it. “No,” it went on now, “I’ll not do that. Let her have her sleep out.”
Miss Trant, however, had already had her sleep out. She was awake now, although her eyes were still closed and she had not stirred. The sound of that first quiet but startled “Well!” had drawn her from some deep dreamless place into an upper region of flickering shadows, dreams, and voices. Where was she? The hotel? The hospital? No. The Mirland Nursing Home. And it was Tuesday afternoon. She was back now in full consciousness, though all it offered her at the moment was a quivering brownish space and these two voices. And one of them was his, hardly changed at all.
She opened her eyes, which discovered a world very bright, solid, looking as if it had just been made. He was standing by the door. She was not surprised to see him. She had not been surprised to hear his voice. It was as if she had spent years and years being surprised not to see him and hear his voice, and that that state of things had now quietly stopped.
“Hello!” she cried, feebly.
He came forward, smiling. He looked older, of course, but not strangely so. On the contrary, he looked more himself, as if this were the age he had been aiming at when she had known him, years ago. “Miss Elizabeth Trant,” he said, with deliberation. Nobody else would have said it like that.
“Doctor Hugh McFarlane,” she replied, giving him her hand.
The nurse nodded brightly at the pair of them and departed.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said, sitting down beside her. “And I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You recognized me then?”
“I did,” and left it at that. He was just the same. He was capable of leaving the most gigantic gaps in conversation, never dreamt of filling them in with the nearest rubbish.
‚ÄúHow did you know I was here? Did you‚ÅÝ‚Äîread about us in the paper?‚Äù For the local paper had been very excited about last Saturday‚Äôs doings at the Hippodrome.
“No, I never saw a word about it in the paper,” he replied. “That would be the paper here though, wouldn’t it? I only see The Times and Glasgow Herald, and there wasn’t anything in them about it.”
“I should hope not.”
“But I did hear something about it,” he continued, thrashing the thing out in the same old way. “Then I had to come here to see a patient of mine and saw your name, so I came to see if it was the Miss Elizabeth Trant I knew.”
She could not resist it. “I thought you would have forgotten all about me by this time,” she murmured.
He shook his head gravely. “Not at all. I hadn’t forgotten you. I recognized you as soon as I came in. You haven’t changed much, even with your little accident too. Subnormal now, aren’t you? Yes, you would be.”
‚ÄúI thought I saw you‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a car‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe other day,‚Äù she told him. ‚ÄúOne day last week it was, about ten miles out of Gatford. I came to the conclusion that it couldn‚Äôt be you, but now I think it must have been.‚Äù
“Now exactly when was that? Last week, you say. What time of day would it be?” He brought out, quite solemnly, a little pocketbook.
‚ÄúAfternoon, sometime,‚Äù she replied vaguely. ‚ÄúIt was‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou were on the main road going out of Gatford‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seems ages ago now. Oh, it doesn‚Äôt matter, does it?‚Äù
“It must have been last Tuesday, I think,” he said, frowning hard at his little book. “Today week. I’d called here. Was I driving a red two-seater? I was? Then it was me you saw. Isn’t that curious? I wish I’d known you were here.”
Miss Trant hesitated for a moment, evaded his level glance, then said hastily: ‚ÄúAs a matter of fact, we‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚ÅÝ‚Äîtried to find out if you were here, just to make sure. But your name wasn‚Äôt in the telephone book. And doctors are always in the telephone book, aren‚Äôt they?‚Äù
‚ÄúNot if they‚Äôve just arrived,‚Äù he said, smiling at her. ‚ÄúThere hasn‚Äôt been time to put me in the telephone directory yet. I‚Äôve just entered into partnership with Doctor Heard‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a man of some age and is giving up the practice soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîout there at Waterfield on the main road. I shouldn‚Äôt have come here but I‚Äôve been doing some work on the parathyroid glands, and that meant being near Masters in London or Hudson here in Gatford. So I came here to work with Hudson. You‚Äôll have heard of him?‚Äù
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” she said, smiling back at him. “It’s terrible, but you people do the most wonderful things and we never hear anything about you.”
He stroked his long bony face. “I suppose that is so, though I can’t complain myself because I haven’t done anything wonderful yet. But how did you come to be here? I never knew you had any inclinations towards the stage.”
She laughed. “I hadn’t and I haven’t. It’s all rather ridiculous, though I must say it doesn’t seem very funny just now.” And she told him, briefly, what had happened since her father died. Sometimes he stared at her in blank amazement, and sometimes he gave a little low chuckle. It made her feel as if she were describing a visit to the moon.
“And now,” she concluded, “don’t ask me what I’m going to do, because I don’t know.”
“I do. You’re going to stay here until that arm’s mended and you’ve had a nice rest and your nerves are quiet again.” He still called them “nairrves.” He still brought out those huge vowels and smashing consonants, and when he turned his face towards the light there was still that glint of hair about his cheekbones. “And if there’s anything that must be done, let me do it for you.”
“Oh, I can’t worry you with my silly affairs. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do, too much, as it is.”
‚ÄúNot at all. I don‚Äôt say I haven‚Äôt plenty to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre always busy you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut still an old bachelor like me has time for anything.‚Äù
“You haven’t married then?”
“No.” He stopped, and fingered his chin. “Up to now, I seem to have been too busy. It’s a thing that takes time, I suppose, getting married.”
“Well, you mustn’t call yourself an old bachelor, not to me. You see, I happen to remember you’re only two years older than I am, and I don’t want to be told I’m old too.”
“Two years older! That’s it exactly. Now who’d have thought you would have remembered that!” he cried, lighting up and altogether more animated now. “You’ve as good a memory as I have.”
“I remember some things very well.”
‚ÄúOch, so do I.‚Äù He was charging in quite recklessly now, without thinking where he might be going. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve never heard a mention of that old rock of Gibraltar without thinking of you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the Colonel,‚Äù he added, hastily.
“Which of us reminds you of Gibraltar?” she inquired, laughing at him. “Not me, I hope. It must have been my father. I think you were always rather frightened of him.”
“Of the Colonel! Not the least bit. It was you I was frightened of, if you must know.”
“Me!” This was too absurd. A memory of that large, masterful, dogmatic young Scot, setting her right about everything, suddenly invaded her mind. “I’m sure that’s not true. I never knew anybody who bullied me quite so much.”
“Ay, I was raw then, a raw lad.”
Tea came in at that moment. “I’ve brought a cup for Doctor McFarlane,” the girl remarked, setting down her tray by the side of the bed.
“Thank you,” said Miss Trant. “You will stay, won’t you? You’ll have to pour it out for both of us, I’m afraid. I can’t manage it with this arm all tied up.”
If she imagined he would be very awkward and clumsy with the teapot, she was wrong. He did it all very deftly indeed, and she noticed now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this was a new discovery‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat his long bony hands were very finely controlled, sensitive. And then‚ÅÝ‚Äîit came in a flash while she was finishing her first piece of bread-and-butter‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe suddenly felt how incredible it was that he should be actually there, the whole enormous lump of him, so tremendously like himself, quietly sharing her tea. And yet one part of her, so small and remote that it could not be said to have a voice, refused to see anything incredible in all this, would not even be faintly surprised, but settled itself down, as if this were the natural order of things. They talked easily now, chiefly about the present, Gatford and the Good Companions, and so forth. The afternoon, itself a pale flower of the early spring, filled the room with washed and delicate light, called out anew the scent of the daffodil and narcissus, and was ecstatically busy with rumours of a fragrant and budding world outside.
‚ÄúAnd will you be going on with this‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîstage business?‚Äù he asked her. When he saw her smile a little ruefully and shake her head, his face cleared. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs nothing wrong with it, of course,‚Äù he continued, ‚Äúbut it seems a daft sort of thing for somebody like yourself to be doing.‚Äù
‚ÄúThe moment they can get on without me, I shall give it up,‚Äù she confessed. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs been‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, fun, if you like. Anyhow, I wouldn‚Äôt have missed it for anything. But for some time now I‚Äôve been thinking I ought to give it up. You see, to begin with, it‚Äôs impossible for me to take it seriously‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI should think not,‚Äù cried Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane heartily, with the air of a man to whom a troupe of pierrots are no more than so many buzzing flies.
“But that’s not fair to them, you see. It’s their world, their life. I don’t want to let them down now. It looked as if everything was going to be splendid. We were making money, and I was getting back all I’d lost. The clever young ones all thought they might get engagements in town, because some big revue man came down on Saturday to see them.”
“Was the row too much for him?”
‚ÄúOh no, worse than that. It‚Äôs a miserable business for them, poor dears‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it‚Äôs rather funny. I can‚Äôt help laughing. It seems he came and got mixed up somehow in a dreadful scrimmage in the audience, and Joe, who didn‚Äôt know who he was and probably didn‚Äôt care, having thoroughly lost his temper, hit this man terribly hard, so hard that he had to be carried out.‚Äù
“Well, well! A knockout, eh? I wouldn’t have thought an actor-laddie could have done that.”
‚ÄúYes, but then Joe was once a heavyweight boxer‚ÅÝ‚Äîin the Navy.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù said Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane, who apparently knew something about heavyweight boxers in the Navy. ‚ÄúHe might well do that then.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd now they‚Äôre all heartbroken, though they pretend not to be when they come here to see me. The young ones feel they have lost their chance, and one of them, Jerningham, seems to have disappeared. Nobody has seen him since Saturday night. One of the older ones‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝNunn, the comedian‚ÅÝ‚Äîhas his head bandaged up and won‚Äôt be fit to act for a week or two. And the others don‚Äôt know what is going to happen to them. We had taken the Hippodrome for another week, but of course we couldn‚Äôt play in it even if it were fit to use.‚Äù
“It certainly isn’t that, from what I hear,” he said grimly.
“That’s the awful thing,” she told him. “I’m responsible for all that damage.”
He stared at her in horror and dismay. “You mean they’ll come on to you to pay for all that?”
‚ÄúI believe so. The Hippodrome people are going to claim it all from me. It‚Äôs a wicked shame because it wasn‚Äôt our fault at all, and we‚Äôve already suffered for it. And just as I thought I should get back most of the money I‚Äôd lost, this comes along. Oh, it‚Äôs a miserable business. And the others are absolutely heartbroken about it. They feel it‚Äôs their fault, though it isn‚Äôt at all, of course. It‚Äôs mine, if it‚Äôs anybody‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Don’t pay a penny piece,” he cried, rising from his chair. Because a man has been working hard on parathyroid glands, and in addition has contrived to remember a girl he once knew on a voyage years ago, that does not mean that he cannot be appalled at the thought of good money being paid out like that. It was a prospect to make hundreds of McFarlanes turn in their graves. It now made this McFarlane stride up and down the room. “You’ve heard nothing definite yet?” he asked, finally.
“No, not yet,” she replied, smiling rather wanly. She suddenly felt tired now.
He stopped, looked at her, then quietly sat down again. “You’re tired now, Elizabeth?” he said, not taking his eyes off her face.
It coloured faintly. “I believe I am.”
“Should I have said ‘Miss Trant’?”
“No, of course not,” returning his steady look with wide candid grey eyes.
“Too much talking. It’s my fault.”
‚ÄúThen I shall have to report you to Doctor Mason, Hugh. But don‚Äôt go for a minute. Let me talk a little longer and then I shall feel better. What do you think I ought to do? I had thought of asking my brother-in-law‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a solicitor in town‚ÅÝ‚Äîto come up and try and straighten it all out for me, but he and Hilda, my sister, are in the South of France. And even if they weren‚Äôt, somehow I don‚Äôt want the family here, crowing over me. Then I thought of asking Mr.¬ÝTruby, he‚Äôs my own solicitor at Cheltenham, to see what he could do, but he‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, I don‚Äôt feel he‚Äôd be much good. He probably thinks I‚Äôm mad.‚Äù
‚ÄúIf it‚Äôs a matter of taking to the law, I don‚Äôt mean in court, but just being represented, then a local man is what you want, a man who knows what goes on in this town. I know a solicitor here‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a patient of mine‚ÅÝ‚Äîof the name of Gooch, a fat fellow but sharp as a needle. I‚Äôll go and talk to him about it, and do what I can myself at the same time. And all you‚Äôve got to do is to lie here quietly, not seeing your actor friends too often, just making your mind easy, reading a book or two‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù He broke off, and regarded her quizzically. ‚ÄúDo you still devote yourself to those romances and historical novels you used to like so well?‚Äù
‚ÄúYes. I don‚Äôt read quite so many as I used to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere aren‚Äôt enough good ones to go on with‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I haven‚Äôt tired yet.‚Äù
“Do you remember my telling you I thought them awful trash? I was raw then, if ever a lad was. I’ve been ploughing my way through Walter Scott whiles, and there’s a great deal of human nature in those Waverley Novels of his. He’d have made a fine general practitioner, Sir Walter would.”
“There! You’re coming on, Hugh.”
He gave a short confused laugh. “No, I’m going on. I’ll be looking in tomorrow if I can at all. If not, the next day for certain. That is, if you would like to see me.”
‚ÄúOf course I should like to see you. I didn‚Äôt think, though, you‚Äôd be able to get here again as early as that. Is‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour patient here worse?‚Äù
“Ay,” he replied, with only the ghost of a twinkle to show that a joke was in progress, “poor fellow, he seems to have taken a turn for the worse since this afternoon. So he’ll need an early return visit.” He rose and took her hand. “It’s been a strange meeting this. I didn’t think you’d have remembered.”
“It was clever of you to recognize me at once, like that, when I was asleep too.”
Having brought off one joke, there was no holding him now. “I won’t say I remembered your face, Miss Elizabeth Trant,” he said solemnly, “but from the way you were lying, the sterno-mastoid muscle was prominent, and I thought I remembered the look of that.”
‚ÄúWhat! Where? You don‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚ÄîOh, I see. You are absurd. Very well, Doctorrr H‚Äëew McFarrrlane, it was your terrible accent‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô only that‚ÅÝ‚Äîah remembered. Goodbye, Hugh. And if you can do anything to prevent me from having to throw all my money away here in Gatford, I shall be awfully grateful.‚Äù
Looking very grave again, at the thought of money being thrown away, he stood before her and declared with emphasis that he would do something about it. He was wearing a good suit‚ÅÝ‚Äîand was a far smarter figure than the bony young man she had known before‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it wanted brushing in places and there were one or two deplorable little stains and burns here and there. And his tie, of course, was monstrous. But greying hair suited him; he was almost handsome now.
“Fancy Doctor McFarlane being such an old friend!” cried the nurse afterwards. She was removing things very deftly, but as she spoke she kept an eye on her patient’s face. Her duties compelled her to see life chiefly in terms of that rickety machine, the body, so it is not surprising that her hobby should have been human interest. Her next “Fancy!,” which was not long in coming, had quite a note of triumph in it. Evidently things were looking up in the Mirland Nursing Home.
II
“You’ve not had a reply?” cried Susie.
“I have,” Inigo replied, coming into the room. It was some time after eleven on the Wednesday morning. Susie had been dusting her sitting-room, which was also her landlady’s parlour, in a fashion that fluctuated between the dreary and the dreamy. Ever since Saturday night, she had felt lost.
“It’s not from Monte Mortimer himself,” Inigo went on, speaking rather carefully, as if he thought he was a solicitor or someone of that kind. “It’s from his secretary.”
“That’s all the same. Hurry up, idiot, and tell me what he says. You’re so slow, Inigo.” Then she plomped down into a chair. “It’s a washout, isn’t it? I can see it is. Go on, though.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a letter and from the secretary,‚Äù said Inigo, sitting down and taking out the sheet of paper. ‚ÄúThis is what it says: ‚ÄòDear Sir, I have communicated your yesterday‚Äôs wire to Mr.¬ÝMortimer, who is away from the office at present, and he requests me, in reply, to tell you to go to the devil. He also requests me to add that any further communication from you or any other member of your troupe will be regarded as coming from there and will not receive any reply whatever. Yours truly, J. Hamilton Levy, Secretary.‚Äô And that,‚Äù Inigo added, with a poor attempt at nonchalance, ‚Äúis that.‚Äù
‚ÄúLet me have a look at it,‚Äù Susie commanded, and then read it through herself. Having done that, she crumpled it fiercely and hurled it into the fire. ‚ÄúAnd to think I‚Äôve been sorry for that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat object‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the last three days! Mean beast! I hope Joe‚Äôs punch knocked him silly. I don‚Äôt care, I do.‚Äù
“Well, it did, my dear,” said Inigo, “hence this colossal snub, absolutely. Looks to me as if he’s still off duty.”
“I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t been so smart-alecky about it. There’s no need for him to try to be funny. His next revue’ll need all the gags he can ever think of. Anyhow, he must be a rotten manager or he’d never let a thing like that stop him from getting in some good new talent. If I was running a show, I wouldn’t care if I got fifty biffs, I’d engage people who could do something.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Susie,” he began.
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be silly. It‚Äôs not your fault. It isn‚Äôt anybody‚Äôs fault, really, and it certainly isn‚Äôt yours. It‚Äôs a washout, that‚Äôs all, and the best thing I can do is to remember it‚Äôs twice daily on the pier, or if fine at the pierhead and if wet in the shelter, that‚Äôs my programme‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I‚Äôm lucky, because it‚Äôs boiling down to that now, when you come to think of it. Hell! Give me a cigarette. No, don‚Äôt, thanks. I don‚Äôt want one.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou ought to smoke a pipe,‚Äù he said, lighting his. ‚ÄúBy the way, I saw Jimmy this morning‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Is he better?”
“Practically. Head still hums a bit, and says he’s dizzy when he tries to walk about. He won’t be fit for work for a week or two. But what I wanted to say was, Mamie Potter’s gone.”
“Thank God! She wasn’t much good anyhow, and she’s brought us nothing but rotten luck. Thinks we’re not good enough for her now, I suppose?”
“Something like that. Anyhow, she’s gone. And nobody seems to know anything about Master Jerningham.”
‚ÄúOh, he‚Äôs pushed off too, I expect,‚Äù said Susie, who was clearly anxious to relieve her feelings. ‚ÄúHe would! He‚Äôll look after himself all right‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAi give you mai ward.‚Äù
“I dunno. He may turn up again, babbling about his trousers as he did last time. Where was that? Tewborough, wasn’t it? Gosh! the holes we’ve been in, Susie!”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs nothing to the hole we‚Äôre in now, laddie,‚Äù she said darkly. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre in a mess, busted absolutely‚ÅÝ‚Äîas our sweet young pianist says. There‚Äôs poor Miss Trant in a nursing home, and though she‚Äôs sweet about it, she must be fed up to the teeth with the lot of us. They say she‚Äôll have to pay for all the damage too. Well, she‚Äôs had enough of it, you can bet. No more Good Companions for her. That means we shan‚Äôt have a cent to go on with. If she offered us any money, I wouldn‚Äôt take it. Not after all she‚Äôs done and had to pay out.‚Äù
“Well, I’ve got a spot, you know,” he remarked.
‚ÄúKeep your spot, my child. I‚Äôm coming to your part in it soon. Then Potter‚Äôs gone. That doesn‚Äôt matter, but still it means we‚Äôll have to get another soubrette. Jerry‚Äôs gone too, and that‚Äôs really awkward. You wouldn‚Äôt get another light comedian as good‚ÅÝ‚Äînot for C.P. work‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you advertised till all was blue. Then Jimmy‚Äôs not fit for work yet. We‚Äôd have to put in old Jess as a Yorkshire comedian. Wouldn‚Äôt he be marvellous! It‚Äôs all right laughing, but‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, it‚Äôs murder. I saw myself up in town by this time, signing contracts like mad, looking for a flat. What a hope! And a week ago I was sniffing at Bournemouth. Bournemouth! It wouldn‚Äôt look at us now. Two-night stands are all we‚Äôre fit for, with a return visit to Rawsley the event of the season. Susie Dean. A riot of Sandybay! Front chairs one-and-ten-pence! Patronize the pierrots, girls and boys! Oh, hell‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Susie!” He jumped out of his chair.
She shook her head fiercely, her thick dark bobbed hair swinging. Then she touched his hand for a moment and pushed him back. “No, sit down, idiot. We’re both idiots. I work myself up in the most ghastly way these days. It must be because I’m so excited inside all the time, have been for days.”
“I know,” said Inigo sympathetically. He was sitting down again now, but his hands were stretched out in front of him, as if it was impossible to restrain them from reaching out to her.
“You don’t know. You don’t know anything about it.” She was smiling mistily. “O lord! where’s my handkerchief? Wait a minute. Now then, I’ve not finished yet. There’s you.”
“Me! What about me? I’m all right.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not. To begin with, you‚Äôre absurd, and always will be. No, don‚Äôt start saying you‚Äôre not, because that‚Äôs not what I‚Äôm going to talk about. You went up to Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs on Saturday, they heard your stuff, and what‚Äôs his name‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Pitsner?”
“That’s right. Well, Pitsner wanted your songs, didn’t he, just as that ape Monte Mortimer did?”
“He did. I won’t say he was keen, because I don’t believe that man was ever keen about anything. He’s got a sort of ‘But she is in her grave, and oh the difference to me!’ look about him, Master Pitsner. Still, he wanted them all right.”
“Well, there you are. Pitsner didn’t get a punch from Joe, you know.”
‚ÄúTrue,‚Äù Inigo murmured. He knew what was coming and was hoping to dodge it. ‚ÄúPitsner didn‚Äôt. But I‚Äôve no doubt at all that something could be arranged, if you feel he ought to have one too. He could come down here for it, or perhaps one of us might go up there‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be funny,‚Äù she told him wearily. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not bad until you start being funny. Then you make me feel sick. Let‚Äôs talk sense. You know he‚Äôll take those songs like a shot. And you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîor you ought to know, by this time‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can make bags of money up there turning out these things. Well, that‚Äôs where you‚Äôre going.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou mean‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI ought to clear out too?‚Äù
“Of course! The sooner the better!”
“But I don’t want to.”
‚ÄúI dare say,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúBecause I‚Äôm not going, eh? I know your little game. You want to stay with us, going the old round, thumping out the old stuff, and looking at me over the top of the piano with the love-light in your eyes. For her sake alone he‚ÅÝ‚Äîthingumy-bobbed‚ÅÝ‚Äîrenounced wealth and fame. Love was his guiding star. Came the dawn. Yeogh!‚Äù Here she gave a very unladylike imitation of acute sickness. ‚ÄúWhat do you think you are‚ÅÝ‚Äîa little hero from Hollywood? Out you go, laddie. Honestly, you don‚Äôt want to go trailing round another year‚ÅÝ‚ÄîRawsley, Dotworth, Sandybay, Winstead, Haxby, Middleford, and Tewborough‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy God!‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said Inigo, examining the bowl of his pipe with unnecessary interest. ‚ÄúSeeing England and all that. On t‚Äôroad‚ÅÝ‚Äîas our friend, Master Oakroyd, says. It‚Äôs the sort of experience that might be very useful to a man of letters‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Man of letters!” Susie made a number of uncomplimentary noises.
Inigo flushed and kicked out a foot at nothing in particular. “Shut up, Susie. I will write something decent some day, you see if I don’t.”
Her dark eyes rested on his sulky boy‚Äôs face for a moment, and lost their hard brilliance. ‚ÄúSorry! I don‚Äôt know anything about it. I only know about silly songs, and you‚Äôre marvellously clever at them. Anyhow, the point is‚ÅÝ‚Äîno self-sacrifice stuff. You‚Äôve got to clear out of this mess.‚Äù
“But you see, there’s no self-sacrifice stuff about it,” he explained quietly and slowly, while he examined, with what was apparently strong distaste, a large photogravure bearing the title “On the Road to Gretna Green.” “I want to be where you are, as I’ve told you before.”
To this Susie made no reply. She looked into the fire, and they were both silent for a minute or two. “But after all,” she said, finally, “if you want to do something for me, you ought to clear out and get up to London. Look what you did last Saturday.”
“That’s true,” he cried, brightening. “That’s the place to work it from.” He paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know, though. I’d have a pop at it, of course, but last Saturday’s effort was gigantic cheek, absolutely, and I don’t know if I could drag out any more Monte Mortimers. Still, you could slip up, couldn’t you?”
She nodded, then frowned at the fire. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a mess. Everything‚Äôs got into a mess. I expect you must think sometimes I‚Äôm an awful little hard nut, always on the make. No, listen,‚Äù as he began to protest. ‚ÄúBut something nags at me inside telling me to get on quick. It‚Äôs a sort of feeling I have about my father and mother. I‚Äôve told you about it before, haven‚Äôt I? As if it was because they had such a rotten time. And I feel I can‚Äôt wait long. It‚Äôs all right people saying ‚ÄòOh, you‚Äôre young. Plenty of time!‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat sounds all right‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut there isn‚Äôt. If nothing happens, I‚Äôll get stale soon. I know I will. I oughtn‚Äôt to, but there you are. I expect I haven‚Äôt the guts to keep on and keep it up.‚Äù
“That’s rot. I see what you mean, absolutely, but it’s rot about not having the guts. You’ve guts enough for ten.”
She laughed, came over to him, and twisted a finger in his lock of hair. “Awful, isn’t it? We sound like a butcher’s shop. Let’s talk about something else.”
‚ÄúBy the way,‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúOw! That hurts. Look here, creature, if you want to know what to do with your hands‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I don’t, thank you,” letting him go.
“Pity,” he grumbled. “However, I was going to say, I’ve just remembered that Saturday night was your benefit.”
“You don’t mean to say you’d forgotten that?”
“No, not exactly. What I meant was, I’d forgotten you got the money. How much was it, and what have you done with it, and so on and so forth?”
“I haven’t done anything with it, idiot. Matter of fact, I don’t know exactly how much it all comes to yet, but anyhow I’m not taking it. Of course not, don’t be silly! How can I? Here’s Miss Trant going to be run in for hundreds and hundreds. I can’t possibly take anything.”
“No, I suppose not,” he replied, poking his face meditatively with the stem of his pipe. “Gosh! I’d forgotten about that.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre lucky! That‚Äôs all part of the hellish mess. I‚Äôm going to see Miss Trant this afternoon. I think I‚Äôll ask Mrs.¬ÝJoe to come too. At times like this, us girls must stick together, my child.‚Äù
They looked at one another, laughed, then carefully explained that they were really very miserable. And indeed they were about as depressed as it was possible for two such lively, youthful, optimistic souls to be. It was all the worse because there was nothing for them to do.
“Well,” said Inigo at length, after wandering vaguely about the room, “I suppose I must be thinking about a spot of food. I’m having lunch out somewhere. Coming with me?”
“I don’t feel like facing Ye Jollie Dutche,” she told him. “I think I’ll tea-and-egg it here. Hello, what’s that?”
“That, my dear,” he replied, at the window, “is a car. And it’s stopping here.”
“Let me have a look. I knew it was. I felt it was. I’ve seen that car before somewhere. Something’s going to happen, Inigo. It is, I know it is.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Come away from the window or you might spoil it. No, we must pretend now we don’t care, else it might stop happening at the last minute. I’ve always felt that, haven’t you? There you are, a knock.”
“Probably the doctor or somebody like that.”
“It can’t be. I’m sure it isn’t.”
And it wasn‚Äôt. The landlady‚Äôs head appeared and announced that a shover had called with a message for Miss Dean and for Mr.¬ÝJollifant too if he was here, which he was as her own eyes could see for themselves, and she would send it in to give it to them.
Susie recognized the chauffeur at once, and we recognize him too, having met him once on the pier at Sandybay and then again, one Sunday afternoon, outside Hicklefield. Yes, it is Lawley, Lady Partlit’s chauffeur.
“And you’re to come round to the Victoria Midland Hotel for lunch, Miss,” he explained. “And you, sir, too. I was going round to your rooms, but this has saved me the trouble. And I had to tell you that it was specially important, and they would be expecting you as soon as you could get round.”
“They?” cried Susie. “Who are the others? Yes, we’ll come, won’t we, Inigo? But what’s it all about?”
“Well,” said Lawley, grinning, “it’s a bit of a surprise, Miss. You’ll soon see.”
Susie looked at him a moment with widening eyes, then flashed a glance that might have meant a thousand things at Inigo, and bolted, screaming as she went: “Back in a minute!”
“Not so blowy as it has been,” remarked Lawley coolly to Inigo, “but still on the cold side, if you ask me.”
III
They both jumped and spoke, but Susie’s cry was a second quicker than Inigo’s.
“Married!”
‚ÄúYes, quite a surprise, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù said the lady who had once been a Partlit. She glittered and jangled and flashed before their startled eyes; her little round mouth looked as if it would never be shut again; her big staring eyes were now dancing with happiness; and though she still resembled a cockatoo, neither cage nor jungle had ever seen a cockatoo so excited, so triumphant. ‚ÄúAnd only this very morning. What a rush, my dear! I haven‚Äôt breathed since Saturday, that horrible, horrible night. Yes, I‚Äôve heard all about it, such a business! If I‚Äôd been a second later getting him away, I really think I should have died. At the time, of course, I could only think about him, but I‚Äôve thought about you all since and felt so sorry. And poor Miss Trant too! But aren‚Äôt you going to‚ÅÝ‚Äîor is that too late?‚Äù
“Of course we are,” cried Susie. “It’s lovely, and I’m sure you’ll both be marvellously happy.”
“Absolutely,” muttered Inigo, who was still rather dazed.
‚ÄúNow isn‚Äôt that nice! Of course it‚Äôs taken you completely by surprise. I knew it would,‚Äù the bride rattled on. ‚ÄúAnd now, my dear, you must be ready for lunch. I think I‚Äôll ring the bell. He should be here any minute now. Telephoning, you know. We haven‚Äôt had a single moment to spare since Monday morning, it‚Äôs been such a rush. There he is, I think.‚Äù She flew to the door. ‚ÄúHere we are, darling, and they were both so surprised‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI knew they would be. Isn‚Äôt it amusing?‚Äù
Susie was the first again. “Marvellous, Jerry!” She was busy shaking his hand. “I’m so glad. I hadn’t any idea what was happening.”
For one wild moment, Inigo, who had not yet come to his senses, saw himself stepping forward to congratulate Jerningham on becoming Lord Partlit or something of that kind. It seemed incredible that Partlit should be merged into Jerningham. ‚ÄúMany happy returns,‚Äù he stammered. ‚ÄúI mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbest wishes and all that.‚Äù
“Tharnks, Susie. Tharnks, Inigo,” said Jerningham gravely and without the flicker of an eyelid. He was more dignified, more beautiful, than ever, but his accent was also more fantastic. That alone had been unsettled by these momentous events; strange at any time, it was now wildly alien; and every sentence he spoke heaped up the mangled syllables. “Glard you could cem on to lernch.”
“And we’ve got news for them, haven’t we, darling?” cried his wife, who looked even more excited and happy now that he was here, as if there had been just a slight possibility before that he might never come back from the telephone.
“I should think you have news,” said Susie, smiling and being tremendously woman-to-woman.
‚ÄúOh, but that‚Äôs not all, my dear, I assure you. Lots of surprises for you today. Isn‚Äôt Mr.¬ÝMemsworth coming, darling? Lunch is ready.‚Äù
“Raight, he won’t be lorng,” replied Jerry. “He’s jerst petting through a call to tawn.”
Susie glanced sharply at Inigo. ‚ÄúWhat have we here?‚Äù this glance inquired, but did not stay for an answer. A waiter arrived with cocktails, and for the next few minutes they all sipped and chatted, with one eye on the door. The table was laid for five, so evidently Mr.¬ÝMemsworth was to be of the party. It had quite a festive appearance, though the room itself, the only small private dining-room in the hotel, seemed to have given up hope of provincial social life about 1892. But what the Victoria Midland Hotel could do, it was obviously about to do for Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝJerningham.
At last, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth made his entrance. It happened that there was a waiter on each side of the door when he appeared, but there ought to have been at least twenty, to say nothing of an orchestra. Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, however, contrived at once to create an atmosphere in which two waiters looked like twenty. The moment he stalked in, with his ‚ÄúSorry to keep you waiting‚Äù in a rich baritone that went straight to the back of the dress-circle, Susie realized in a flash it was the Memsworth, the great Memsworth, one greater than Monte Mortimer, and known in the profession as ‚ÄúThe Emperor‚Äù or, more familiarly, perhaps ironically, as ‚ÄúThe Emp.‚Äù This was partly a tribute to his managerial powers, for he was the greatest despot in the musical-comedy world, and partly a tribute to his actual presence, his terrific style. Unlike most manager-producers, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth had been an actor himself, having for years played ‚Äúleads‚Äù in musical comedy. Those were the days when the scene of every musical comedy was set in some vague Central European state, when every leading juvenile was a prince in hussar uniform and every principal comedian a baron with a red nose, a squeaky voice, and a passion for ladies‚Äô maids, when every stage was noisy with heel-clicking, hussar choruses, and stentorian announcements of ‚ÄúHis Highness, Prince Michael of Slavonia.‚Äù Night after night, year after year, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth had been some Highness or other, with the result that the manner had grown upon him; he could not divest himself of kingship. And now that he was a manager-producer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a very successful one, having a sound knowledge of the public taste, an eye for talent, and a very good head for business‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe still made princely exits and entrances, patted people on the back as if he were bestowing an order upon them, and laughed in that hearty manner only possible to great public personages. The fashion in musical comedy had changed‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he had been one of the first to recognize the fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut Slavonia, with its soldiers and soubrettes, its waltz-time and impossible scenery, lived on in him. And now, as he came forward to the luncheon table, it seemed strange that he was not followed by two files of baritone dragoons.
Susie nearly choked when she was introduced‚ÅÝ‚Äîor rather, presented‚ÅÝ‚Äîto him. She knew all about him. The Emp. himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere in Gatford! But then, of course, Lady Partlit‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMrs.¬ÝJerningham‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad something to do with West End theatres. She remembered that talk in the hotel outside Hicklefield. Those were Memsworth‚Äôs theatres too. It was obvious now. Jerry had married her so that he could star in Memsworth‚Äôs productions‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomething like that. ‚ÄúAnd you‚Äôre on in this, Susie,‚Äù she told herself, nearly bursting with excitement.
Inigo was quite cool, for the simple reason that he did not know who Memsworth was, except that he seemed the nearest thing one could ever get in this lower world to Prince Florizel of Bohemia.
They had not been sat down long when Mr.¬ÝMemsworth looked gravely from one to the other of them, and, raising a fork, commanded silence. ‚ÄúMiss Dean, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù he began, in deep, solemn tones, ‚Äúthe other night I had the pleasure of seeing your show here.‚Äù
“When?” gasped Susie.
“On Saturday night,” he told her.
“And I was there too,” the bride put in. “Wasn’t I, darling? And a terrible night it was too, my dear.”
“It was you in the box,” cried Susie.
‚ÄúOf course it was. It was all going to be such a nice surprise. Mr.¬ÝMemsworth had to see me on business, and I said to him, ‚ÄòYou must come and see these clever people,‚Äô and he laughed‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis was on the telephone‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou did laugh, didn‚Äôt you, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth?‚Äù
‚ÄúI believe I was rather amused,‚Äù the Emperor admitted. ‚ÄúBut then who wouldn‚Äôt have been, dear lady? I mean, in my position. New talent in Gatford is not an impossibility‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere are no impossibilities in our profession‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîan improbability. I think you‚Äôll agree with me there.‚Äù
‚ÄúAbsolutely,‚Äù said Inigo heartily. He was enjoying Mr.¬ÝMemsworth and so thought that this was the least he could do.
‚ÄúBut though I laughed,‚Äù the great man continued, very impressively, ‚ÄúI came, I saw‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I was conquered.‚Äù
Inigo gave a sudden gurgle. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help thinking about Monte Mortimer, who came and saw and was conquered too.”
“And I hope he’s still feeling it,” said Susie.
The others stared at them.
“Mai dar Jollifant,” said Jerningham, raising his exquisite eyebrows, “whort is all this about?”
‚ÄúAh, Monte,‚Äù the Emperor murmured. ‚ÄúSo you know Monte, do you? A very able fellow, very able‚ÅÝ‚Äîin his own line of business.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou see,‚Äù cried Susie, ‚Äúhe was there on Saturday too‚ÅÝ‚Äîto have a look at us.‚Äù
“What!” Susie and Inigo began explaining together, and contrived to tumble out the story between them.
Mr.¬ÝMemsworth roared with laughter. It was as good as a baritone solo. ‚ÄúBut do you mean to say he was laid out?‚Äù he demanded. ‚ÄúHe was? Right under my nose too. My dear people, I‚Äôd have given pounds, pounds, to have seen it. Monte! On the jaw, I think you said?‚Äù The room shook with his imperial mirth. ‚ÄúWaiter, the champagne. We must drink to this, we really must. Oh, why didn‚Äôt I know at the time. You made him come up and then he was knocked out. Monte! What a story! Next time I see Monte at the club, I shall go up to him, look him in the eyes, and then simply say one word‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGatford. Monte will be at my mercy. Why, if this story got about‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMemsworth raised his eyes, his hands, towards Heaven, and then drank some champagne. ‚ÄúBut, Miss Dean, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, this has its serious side,‚Äù he went on, solemn again now. ‚ÄúAre you tied up with him in any way?‚Äù
“He told us to go to the devil,” said Susie. And Inigo explained about the letter they had received that very morning.
‚ÄúWhat a rude man!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJerningham.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the Oriental,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, ‚Äúthe Oriental, dear lady. Monte is not a sportsman‚ÅÝ‚Äînever was, never will be. I know him well, in business and outside it. A very able fellow, as I said before‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know anybody who can put on a revue of the medium-class, semi-intimate, semi-spectacular‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut not a gentleman.‚Äù He turned to Susie and Inigo. ‚ÄúSo that leaves you free. No more Monte! Well, I don‚Äôt mind admitting that I think you‚Äôre lucky. I don‚Äôt say that Monte couldn‚Äôt have done something for you. He could have done a great deal. He‚Äôs made one or two good people. But I can do more‚ÅÝ‚Äîbelieve me, much more. I can put you‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd will, won‚Äôt you, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJerningham, who was evidently not only happy herself but anxious that everybody else should be happy. A bird of Paradise, not a cockatoo.
‚ÄúI will try, if these‚ÅÝ‚Äîif your friends here‚ÅÝ‚Äîwill allow me,‚Äù he replied majestically. ‚ÄúAs I say, I saw the show on Saturday, and to my astonishment, I discovered that here‚ÅÝ‚Äîplaying in Gatford‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a troupe whose name is entirely unknown to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîare three young people of real, quite undoubted talent.‚Äù He paused, holding them with his eye. ‚ÄúFirst, a young comedienne, who can sing, who can dance, who can act, who has‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this is the great thing‚ÅÝ‚Äîcharm and personality. If she has ambition, as I‚Äôm told she has‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I’m bursting with it.” Susie told him breathlessly.
He bowed. ‚ÄúSo I believe. That‚Äôs very important, more important every day. Must have ambition, must be ready to work hard, to put your profession first. Society and the journalists are ruining so many of our young ladies. They achieve a little success‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then, what happens? They go here, they go there; their names, their photographs, are in all the papers‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery good publicity, of course‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt object to it; but they don‚Äôt work.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs true, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth,‚Äù said Susie eagerly. ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôm ready to work till I drop, honestly I am. I‚Äôm not doing it for fun. I was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas born in the profession.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what we want,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúAs a matter of fact, I was myself. Now, second‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI found a juvenile lead.‚Äù He bowed to Jerningham, who blushed for once in his cool unblushing life. ‚ÄúI know all about him now, so I needn‚Äôt say any more. But third‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI found a young composer who can write songs that get across and stay there,‚Äù He turned to Inigo. ‚ÄúDo you think you can write some more like those numbers I heard?‚Äù
‚ÄúI should think so,‚Äù replied Inigo carelessly. He was beginning to feel wonderlandish again, what with Mr.¬ÝMemsworth and the champagne. ‚ÄúAny amount.‚Äù
The great man looked at him in grave astonishment, in which there was perhaps a touch of awe. Here was a very extraordinary young man, who was not at all impressed by the fact that he was about to be taken up by Memsworth. “My word, my boy!” he ejaculated.
‚ÄúHe can too, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúInigo‚Äôs marvellous. He can just knock them off like anything.‚Äù
‚ÄúThart is so,‚Äù said Jerry, with lofty kindness. ‚ÄúYou can barnk on Jollifant, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth. You‚Äôve nobody writing nambers for you to tech him.‚Äù
“And they eat them, even in the stupidest places,” Susie continued. “You could see that the other night, couldn’t you? But p’raps you couldn’t. I was forgetting that wretched rotten business, busting up the show.”
‚ÄúAh yes. Curious, that, very curious. I‚Äôve not seen anything like it for years.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMemsworth looked thoughtful. ‚ÄúNo, nothing as bad for twenty years. I don‚Äôt know what you people made of it, but to me it was obvious, quite obvious. Hooliganism, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut organized hooliganism. Somebody must have paid them to do that. The house in general was very enthusiastic. I saw that. Then why should these fellows kick up such a row, and go on doing it? Paid to do it. There for the purpose. I don‚Äôt know who employed them, I don‚Äôt know why they were employed, all I say is they were employed, paid to do it. I‚Äôve seen it happen before, though not lately. I‚Äôve had a lot of experience. You take my word for it. Organized rowdyism.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm beginning to think that, too,‚Äù said Susie, ‚Äúand I know that Mrs.¬ÝJoe does. I shall tell Miss Trant, don‚Äôt you think so, Inigo, Jerry?‚Äù
‚ÄúMeanwhile‚ÅÝ‚Äîto business,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, looking as if he were about to give his loyal subjects a Constitution. ‚ÄúI take it, then, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, you‚Äôre free to work for me?‚Äù
Inigo thought so, but put in a word about Felder and Hunterman.
‚ÄúThat can be arranged,‚Äù and Mr.¬ÝMemsworth waved a hand. ‚ÄúLeave that to me. What I want you to do is to see Julian Jaffery, who‚Äôs supposed to be doing the music for my new show or at least putting some new stuff into it. We should want those numbers I heard the other night and one or two others, and then you can set to work on another thing I‚Äôm planning. I‚Äôve got most of the book. And I want you, Miss Dean, to rehearse a big part‚ÅÝ‚Äîin which you‚Äôll be playing opposite Mr.¬ÝJerningham here, and you can work together‚ÅÝ‚Äîin this show that‚Äôs nearly ready. You can take Mr.¬ÝJollifant‚Äôs numbers that you‚Äôre doing now straight into it, though I may get one of my librettists to alter the words a bit.‚Äù He had in hand, it seemed, a splendid new musical comedy, that bore the provisional title The Mascot Girl. It had begun as a French farce, but had been taken to Vienna, where it was transformed into an operetta, which was entirely rewritten in New York as a song-and-dance show; and now, the last vestiges of the original plot having been removed, new words and music were being introduced so that it could blossom out again as an English comedy. Mr.¬ÝMemsworth told them all about it or at least contrived to suggest that he was telling them all about it, for there was not really much to tell. It was obvious that the thing would only begin to have a shape at the rehearsal. Nevertheless, it appeared that Susie and Jerry would have very important parts in it, and that Inigo‚Äôs tunes would soon be delighting or worrying the whole country. In short, their fortunes were made, their ships almost in harbour.
“No,” cried Susie, her eyes dancing, “I really couldn’t eat or drink anything else. If I did I should be sick, I’m so excited.”
‚ÄúSweet!‚Äù murmured Mrs.¬ÝJerningham, and patted her hand.
‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, golly!‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs marvellous. Isn‚Äôt it, Inigo? Don‚Äôt sit there, pretending you don‚Äôt care tuppence. Isn‚Äôt it marvellous? Aren‚Äôt you dizzy?‚Äù
“Absolutely,” said Inigo, who was in fact a trifle dizzy.
“I don’t mind saying it’s jerst whort I’ve warnted,” Jerningham admitted. And he gave his wife such a sudden, unexpected and unasked for, altogether beautiful smile that no doubt she felt dizzy too. For smiles like that, she would have bought him whole theatres.
Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, whom the champagne had made more benevolent and regal than ever, so that he sat there like another Haroun al Raschid, smiled upon them all, and then explained to Susie and Inigo that they had better clear things up in Gatford and then report to him in town if possible in two days‚Äô time, and on Monday at the latest. Then he would have contracts ready and everything.
Susie stared at him in a happy dream: ‚ÄúOh, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, don‚Äôt disappear or anything, will you? I feel as if I‚Äôm sitting in my digs making this up, just to pass the afternoon. In a minute I shall wake up.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs so very nice for you, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJerningham cooed.
‚ÄúNice! It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, I can‚Äôt begin. And you‚Äôve done it, Lady‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, Mrs.¬ÝJerningham, and I‚Äôm so glad you‚Äôve married Jerry and I hope you‚Äôll both be happy forever and ever.‚Äù And she flung out her hands, and Jerry shook one, with a solemn ‚ÄúTharnks, Susie,‚Äù while his bride squeezed the other, saying: ‚ÄúYou know, we‚Äôve to go up to town tonight. All such a rush, isn‚Äôt it? But I do adore a rush, don‚Äôt you, my dear?‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd this,‚Äù said Inigo, who had just accepted and lit a large cigar so that he felt almost vulgarly opulent already, ‚Äúis the end‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very end‚ÅÝ‚Äîof the Good Companions.‚Äù
Susie’s face fell. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten that. Yes, it’s all right laughing, but it’s rather sad, really. Why can’t we have one nice thing without having to give up another nice thing?”
‚ÄúThat, my dear lady, is Life.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMemsworth did this magnificently.
‚ÄúI suppose it is, but it‚Äôs beastly all the same,‚Äù said Susie. ‚ÄúOh, and what about the others, Jimmy and the Joes? What are they going to do now, poor darlings? Can‚Äôt you do anything for them, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth? They‚Äôre awfully good, really. You didn‚Äôt get a chance to see them properly the other night.‚Äù
He shook his head. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt doubt it. I wish I could do something for them. I‚Äôd like to oblige you, Miss Dean, and I like to see people in our profession sticking to their friends. But these others‚ÅÝ‚Äîsorry‚ÅÝ‚Äînot in my line. Too old, you know. Much too old even for the chorus. I might possibly find a very small part in something or other for the little comedian, but really I think he‚Äôd be far better off in his own concert-party work. And the others certainly would. Sorry, but still, they‚Äôll find work all right. Can‚Äôt they carry on this present show?‚Äù
“Nathing left in it,” said Jerry. “All the real tarlent gone.”
“No, that’s not fair, Jerry,” Susie told him. “But there wouldn’t be enough of them to do anything with it. I mean, it couldn’t be the same show, now that half of it has gone. Oh, it’s a shame. They’ll have to find work with another C.P. and it won’t be easy getting into a good one ’cos the season’s nearly beginning.”
Mr.¬ÝMemsworth looked thoughtful. ‚ÄúThe season‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe season,‚Äù he mused. ‚ÄúNow that reminds me of something that was said to me the other day. What was it? Ah, I have it. Bellerby, that‚Äôs the man. Bellerby used to do a good deal of work for me at one time, and I ran across him the other day in town and he told me he was getting a resident concert party together for some resort or other, Eastbourne, Hastings, one of those places, you know. In fact, he asked me if I could recommend him a few decent people.‚Äù
“Oh, but that would be marvellous! Just what they want! Do you think this man would take them?” Susie asked.
‚ÄúA word from me,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, and a wave of his hand told them the rest.
‚ÄúBut how are you‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîwill you write to him or something?‚Äù
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant, just touch that bell, will you?‚Äù the great man commanded. This‚ÅÝ‚Äîhis manner informed them‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas his way of doing things, and they must now keep their eyes and ears open. The bell brought a waiter, and the waiter was told to bring Mr.¬ÝNurris, who it appeared was Mr.¬ÝMemsworth‚Äôs secretary. Mr.¬ÝNurris was a pallid young man with darkish horn-rimmed spectacles. ‚ÄúLook here, Nurris,‚Äù cried his employer. ‚ÄúCan you remember Bellerby‚Äôs address? You remember him? South coast somewhere. You can, eh? Then take a wire. Wait a minute, though. I must be out of this town by five. It‚Äôs no use him wiring back to me. Who‚Äôll act for these four people?‚Äù he asked Susie and Inigo.
They gave him Jimmy‚Äôs name and address. Thereupon, Mr.¬ÝMemsworth dictated a telegram of theatrical dimensions, recommending one comedian, one conjurer-banjoist, one baritone and feed, and contralto, all experienced C.P. artistes, and asking for terms, dates, and other details, to be wired to Jimmy Nunn. ‚ÄúAnd if that doesn‚Äôt bring a reply by tonight, you may take it from me that Bellerby is either drunk or missing or both. Get it off at once, Nurris.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd now,‚Äù said Susie to Inigo, after they had shaken hands all round and declared how splendid it all was and taken their leave, ‚Äúit looks as if we‚Äôre all going to be fixed up. Aren‚Äôt you excited? Honestly, I‚Äôm nearly ill. I want to rush up to everybody and tell them all about it. Just think of us sitting there this morning‚ÅÝ‚Äîme, anyhow‚ÅÝ‚Äîgiving it all up as a bad job. And then this comes along. Wouldn‚Äôt it be ghastly if I got run over or something now?‚Äù She squeezed his arm hard, then let it go and laughed.
“You’ve forgotten two people,” he told her, after she had finished happily babbling. “One is Miss Trant.”
“I’m going to see her now, to tell her all the news. And I’m sure she won’t mind a bit. I believe she’ll be glad. And I shall tell her to keep all my benefit money, to help to pay the damages they say they’re going to claim at the measly Hippodrome. It’ll all help, won’t it?”
“A spot,” he replied. “Those damages are going to be a nasty piece of work. I don’t like the idea of poor Miss Trant being left here, with a bad arm and a bill a mile long, while we trot off to town to make our fortunes.”
‚ÄúIf you put it like that‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I must say, Inigo, you‚Äôve a nasty way of putting things‚ÅÝ‚Äîit sounds nearly as bad as murder. But it‚Äôll be all right. Everything‚Äôs going to be all right for everybody, I feel sure it is. I‚Äôve felt so all along. The trouble about you, my laddie, is you‚Äôve no confidence‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, by gosh! I like that,‚Äù he protested, ‚Äúwhen it‚Äôs only a few hours since you were moping away‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt talk such rot, Inigo. That‚Äôs the worst of you. You talk such a lot of rot. It must be because you‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat is it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîan author‚ÅÝ‚Äîno, something worse than that‚ÅÝ‚Äîa man of let‚Äëters. No, don‚Äôt start being cross now, or you‚Äôll spoil everything. Who‚Äôs the other one I‚Äôve forgotten?‚Äù
‚ÄúOur Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.‚Äù
“Jess lad. So I had,” she cried. “What a shame! I haven’t seen him for days. Have you? Oh, something nice must happen to him, it really must. We can’t all just leave him, alone with his bag of tools and his little basket thing. Do you remember his little basket trunk? Wasn’t it sweet? He’s been a bit broody lately too, so p’raps he wants a change like the rest of us. Well, I’m sure it’ll be easy to find him a job. We could take him with us, or the others might be able to find him something if they get that resident job, or Miss Trant might want him to stay with her.”
“Why, what could she give him to do? What’s she going to do herself anyhow?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t be so silly and impatient, young man. Well, this is where we part. I’m going to see Miss Trant. I don’t know what she’ll think about me. Do I look all right, because honestly I feel tight, though I only had one glass of that champagne? And you run along and write another song or two, just to keep your hand in. No, run away. Isn’t it marvellous? See you soon.”
“When?”
‚ÄúTonight‚ÅÝ‚Äîperhaps.‚Äù
He watched her dart across the road and then trip away down the other side, so eager, so happy, like a girl in a shining fairytale. It almost hurt him to see her like that. Something old, unreasonable, stirred apprehensively inside him‚ÅÝ‚Äîa little Inigo that had once looked up from his bone and his bride to see the trampling mastodon blotting out the sky. Then he grinned at himself and walked away.
IV
Once more we discover Mrs.¬ÝJoe in her sitting-room, surrounded by the brown cotton-woolly moors and glens that haunted the imagination of Mrs.¬ÝPennyfeather‚Äôs uncle. Mrs.¬ÝJoe is still knitting that mysterious garment, which is now more complicated and untidier than ever. She had knitted steadily through these dark idle days, and it looks as if there is a danger of her knitting herself inside this pink monster and having to be rescued with a pair of shears. We have never pretended that she was young but now, as she sits there, working away, she looks older than she did. In that mask of mingled dignity and simple foolishness, there has been a recent invasion of fine lines; her face begins to droop and sag. This past week she has suffered as an artiste, a wife, and a mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor though George is safe on Denmark Hill, he has to be paid for, for his passion for playing football in side-streets with a little india-rubber ball is creating a terrible boot problem. No doubt she is thinking about these things, the bewildering mechanics of life, as she stares into the microscopic fire, itself evidence enough of the Brundit new economic policy. For a few minutes, during which we shall do well to look upon her with kindness, for very soon, this very night in fact, she is going her way and we are going ours and the acquaintance is at an end, she sits and stares and weaves the monstrous mesh. Then she starts up. Somebody has burst into the room. It is Susie.
Susie takes a deep breath, plucks off her hat, and flings it anywhere, takes another deep breath, and falls into a chair.
‚ÄúYou did give me a Start, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe tells her, reproachfully. ‚ÄúI wondered what on earth it could be.‚Äù
And now Susie begins: ‚ÄúTalk about news! My dear, I‚Äôm simply bursting with ‚Äôem. Jerry‚Äôs married Lady Partlit, the woman I told you about, who sent the bouquet, and I‚Äôve seen them both, had lunch with them, and Mr.¬ÝMemsworth, the Emperor, you know, the musical-comedy man, he was there too, and we‚Äôre all going to London and Jerry and I are going to have parts, really fat parts, in a new show he‚Äôs doing, and Inigo‚Äôs going to write the music, and Mr.¬ÝMemsworth‚Äôs wired to a man who‚Äôs getting up a resident C.P. somewhere‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúStop it, child, stop it,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe shrieks. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre putting me in a Maze, with your Lady Partridges and Emperors. I don‚Äôt know whether I‚Äôm sitting in this room or where I am. Now just calm yourself down and get your breath and begin at the beginning and let me take it all in.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúBut, Susie, my dear, you‚Äôre not teasing me, are you? I mean, you‚Äôre not just making it all up. I couldn‚Äôt bear that just now. Some other time, perhaps, it would be just a little fun and frolic between ourselves‚ÅÝ‚Äînobody can say I don‚Äôt like a little joking in a friendly way‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut just now, what with all things being at Sixes and Sevens, no, worse than that, if you count in the injuries and loss of salaries, to say nothing of future engagements, that is, whether there‚Äôll be any at all and if so, where‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI really couldn‚Äôt bear it. So don‚Äôt tell me anything you‚Äôre making up, will you?‚Äù
‚ÄúMaking it up! I couldn‚Äôt make it up. Nobody could. Just you listen and don‚Äôt say a word.‚Äù After which, Mrs.¬ÝJoe does listen, entranced, to a very full account of the lunch.
‚ÄúDid you ever!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúI never did. There‚Äôs your Chance, come at last, you might say, when hope had fled. Doesn‚Äôt it show you? My words, it does.‚Äù She is almost aghast at this revelation of her prophetic powers. ‚ÄúThere was I, on Saturday, saying to you when you told me that Mortimer man was there, ‚ÄòWhat did I tell you? Here‚Äôs your Chance, come to you, without asking, in Gatford.‚Äô And then when nothing came of it and the things I‚Äôve said to Joe about what he did that night really won‚Äôt bear thinking of, not in cold blood‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen nothing came of it, I could have slapped myself for Leading You On. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôve only gone and made it worse, you silly creature,‚Äô I said to myself. And yet something told me. Try as I might, it still told me. And now here you are, with a Bigger Chance. And it had to come, even if it took a marriage no more expected than the Man in the Moon to do it, you might say. It‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚ÅÝ‚Äîa thing like this‚ÅÝ‚Äîmakes you ask yourself, Where Are We?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîWhat Are We?‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you see what I mean.‚Äù She loses herself in these profundities for a moment or two. Then she throws aside all her knitting and needles and balls of wool. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad. I‚Äôm very very glad, my dear. I know it means breaking up and starting afresh some‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere else for us, with the season so near too, but I‚Äôm still glad, just for your own sake, my dear.‚Äù And she leans forward and kisses her young friend‚Äôs flushed face.
“But, you stupid, I’ve news for you, too,” Susie points out.
‚ÄúAnything I‚Äôm sure will be welcome,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe replies. Then she adds, a trifle wistfully: ‚ÄúThere hasn‚Äôt been anything said about us, has there?‚Äù
‚ÄúOf course there has. That‚Äôs what I‚Äôm trying to tell you.‚Äù And out it comes, to delight Mrs.¬ÝJoe.
‚ÄúThough,‚Äù she is careful to say, ‚Äúas things go in the ordinary way‚ÅÝ‚Äîand unless Luckiness has set in all round‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs only a Shot in the Dark so far. A manager says he wants artistes for a resident season at one of our best resorts. He says it once. Well and good! He may say it twice. Twice is quite possible. But after that, he‚Äôs not going to say it any more‚ÅÝ‚Äîand why? Because he‚Äôs got the artistes. They flocked in, my dear, flocked. They don‚Äôt need to be told twice. You do see what I mean, don‚Äôt you? He told Mr.¬ÝMemsworth about this some days ago‚ÅÝ‚Äîperhaps a week ago, perhaps longer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand if he‚Äôs told other people, he‚Äôs already had the choice of a hundred. To ask for artistes for a good resident season,‚Äù she adds solemnly, ‚Äúis like‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you might as well ask for haystacks for a needle.‚Äù
“Oh, he may not have booked anybody,” Susie remarks, rather carelessly. “Anyhow, we’ll soon see. He was told to wire a reply to Jimmy.”
“Joe’s over there now. Went to discuss the situation, and so I told him, ‘Very well, but if it’s to be a discussion, stay in the rooms and have something in. Send Out for a bottle or two of beer and leave it at that, and don’t go discussing on licensed premises, because that’s how the money goes.’ That’s a thing to watch when you’re married, my dear. Always get him to Send Out for something and do his discussing at home.”
Susie laughs. “I’ll remember that, though it doesn’t matter because I don’t intend ever to get married.”
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt tell me, because I know how you feel. I was just the same at your age. But then‚ÅÝ‚Äîall of a sudden, before you can say Jack Robinson‚ÅÝ‚Äîit comes over you.‚Äù
“I think I know somebody it’s coming over now,” Susie tells her confidentially. “And that’s Miss Trant.”
“No!”
‚ÄúYes. I‚Äôve just seen her. And I found him there, the great him. Didn‚Äôt I ever tell you about that Scotch doctor she‚Äôs been quietly in love with for ages?‚Äù To make sure of the matter, she tells her now. ‚ÄúAnd there he was the day,‚Äù she concludes, employing what passes in theatrical circles for a good Scots accent, ‚Äúlooking into herrr eyes and callin‚Äô herrr Eleezabeth. He‚Äôs verra tall an‚Äô verra bony an‚Äô verra seerious, but wi‚Äô a nice kind face. An‚Äô if he‚Äôs not proposin‚Äô marritch the morn‚Äôs morn an‚Äô if she‚Äôs no gladly acceptin‚Äô him, ah‚Äôll go an‚Äô eat ma best bonnet. Hoots, woman, its a‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, I can‚Äôt do any more, but anyhow there they are, falling in love all over again like billy-oh, and blushing away every time they look at one another. And Miss Trant pretends to be very worried about what we‚Äôre all going to do, and about the show busting up, and about all this money she may have to pay out, but she doesn‚Äôt care a damn, really. I could see it in her eye. What she‚Äôs thinking about now is her Doctorr McFarlane, ye ken. And good luck to her, the darling, I say.‚Äù
‚ÄúSo do I, indeed I do,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe reflects for a moment. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a noble profession, though I must say I could never fancy one of them. Don‚Äôt you feel that too, my dear? I mean, as soon as you said anything to keep them in their place a bit, they‚Äôd say, ‚ÄòLet me look at your tongue,‚Äô and then where would you be? Besides, think of being married to a man who knew everything that was going on inside you, all about your liver and everything! You‚Äôd never be able to look him in the face. I remember a doctor‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, he wasn‚Äôt quite a doctor but he was going to be one‚ÅÝ‚Äîa medical student, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he was very attached to me, I couldn‚Äôt keep him away‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis was before I met Joe, long before, when I first went on the stage‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he was very good-looking and most amusing company, but one Sunday night, when he‚Äôd had a little too much‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôd been out to Richmond, I remember, and it was a very hot day‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he told me what he‚Äôd been doing to a rabbit‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a dead rabbit, but still‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, I never fancied him after that. I didn‚Äôt like the look in his eye. But Miss Trant, I dare say, is different. You feel‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt you, my dear?‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe wouldn‚Äôt care about a thing like that. It‚Äôs all Temperament.‚Äù
But now there are noises off. Enter three gentlemen, carrying bottled ale.
“Has Susie told you?” Joe roars at his wife. “Well, Jimmy’s just had a wire. We’ve just left him.” He rubs his hands and shows her a long slow delighted grin.
‚ÄúWhat does he say then?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe demands, impatiently. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt stand there, without a word. Of all the aggravating men, Joe‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù
‚ÄúWants to see us on Monday,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham tells her. ‚ÄúTerms are good. Open middle of April, clean run through until end of September. Rehearse beginning of April, on full pay. And if it‚Äôs the same Bellerby I played with in Nought Six, he‚Äôs a gentleman.‚Äù
“Bit of your doing, this, Susie,” Joe roars again. “I’ve heard all about you. After this, up among the stars so high, eh? Shan’t be allowed to talk to you after this week.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Joe. But honestly, isn’t it marvellous?”
“Splendiferous! And what do you say to me for giving that other fellow a tap on the jaw? Don’t forget us, will you?”
“As if I should!”
He gives her a gigantic hug. Mrs.¬ÝJoe and Mr.¬ÝMitcham explain to one another, with the ease and rapidity of veterans, the advantages of a resident season on the South coast. Inigo discovers some tumblers on the sideboard and opens the beer. The gentlemen immediately fall to drinking healths and Mrs.¬ÝJoe admits that at this moment she could do with ‚Äúsomething sharp.‚Äù Susie, perched on the edge of the table, exchanges smiles with Inigo, because the others seem so happy. Somebody wants to know where Mr.¬ÝOakroyd is, and nobody is able to supply the information. Everybody, however, has so much to say and is so eager to say it that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who after all has not disappeared into the blue, is soon forgotten. Susie has accepted a cigarette, Joe and Inigo have their pipes, Mr.¬ÝMitcham has brought out one of his famous cheroots, so that now the room is full of smoke. Thus we see them through a blue haze: Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, towering, fantastic, less like a broken-down senator than he was when we first met him at Dullingham Junction, but still the same conglomeration of creaking bone, bending brow, and retreating hair, the same traveller from unimaginable places; Mrs.¬ÝJoe, flushed, almost sparkling now, ten years younger than she was an hour ago, talking away and sipping her bottled beer but still ready at any moment to play the Duchess of Dorking; the great shoulders and honest beaming face of Joe himself, as he nods and grins and agrees with everybody; Inigo of the wandering nose and wandering lock of hair, at once clean and untidy in the pleasant undergraduate fashion that remains with some men; and Susie, swinging her legs at the table‚Äôs edge, turning eagerly from one to another of her companions, talking, laughing, teasing, fooling, as if those dark eyes of hers would see ten thousand years of life undimmed. In another moment they will be nothing but names and news. We see them through this haze, which thickens, deepens, shredding away colour, blurring shape, like Time itself flowing mistily away, and then the curtain comes rustling down, and now we cannot see them at all and perhaps will never see them again.
V
And what was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd doing all this time? What has kept him in the background? The answer is‚ÅÝ‚Äîa new part. For the first and last time in his life, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd played the detective, a role for which‚ÅÝ‚Äînot being a reader of sensational fiction‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe had no particular liking or aptitude. But the great catastrophe had left him darkly brooding, and after innumerable pipes of Old Salt and some talk with his friend, Mr.¬ÝJock Campbell, a man compact of suspicion, he had begun to put two and two together. Thus it came about that he played the detective, and we shall soon discover to what purpose if we wait for him in Miss Trant‚Äôs room at the nursing home, on the morning of the day when Susie and Inigo were due to depart to London, and even Mrs.¬ÝJoe and the others were thinking seriously about packing.
Miss Trant was still in the nursing home, but if she had been in a hurry to leave it, she could have done so. She preferred, however, to stay on until her arm was completely better, to the great content of her new medical adviser, Dr.¬ÝHugh McFarlane, who contrived to visit her every day. He had now gone into the matter of the Hippodrome claims with Mr.¬ÝGooch, and this meant, of course, that he had to see her as often as possible, whatever might happen to a good general practice and the parathyroid glands. Having completely recovered from the shock, Miss Trant was now able to get up, but for the time being she was keeping to her room. When Hugh called, on this particular morning, he found her sitting in an armchair.
“I telephoned to Gooch,” he explained, “and he’s coming along to see you. Something very special, he says. I don’t know that I can stay for long, but he’ll tell you all about it, Elizabeth.”
“It’s a shame, your doing so much,” she told him. “I’m sure you can’t spare the time. You mustn’t bother any more about it, Hugh.”
And he replied that it was no trouble at all, and she said she was sure it must be, and he replied again, quite gruffly, that it was a pleasure, and by this time their eyes had joined in the dialogue and were making the most reckless remarks to one another, so that though their tongues had framed only the most innocent friendly syllables, she was bright pink and he was brick-red. Shy people can engage in this commerce for quite a long time before anything decisive happens, and it is not a stage of the passion that has any interest at all for outsiders (though Miss Trant‚Äôs nurse, who had followed every move, noted every blush, and taken the temperature of the affair each day, must be excepted), so that we can safely withdraw to await the arrival of Mr.¬ÝGooch.
Mr.¬ÝGooch was a solicitor with a very large practice and also a marked Midlands accent. These two things taken together indicate that he was an unusually astute man who knew a great deal about everybody in Gatford, Mundley, and Stort. Miss Trant‚Äôs family solicitor, Mr.¬ÝTruby of Cheltenham, would not have approved of Mr.¬ÝGooch at all, but then Mr.¬ÝTruby would have been afraid to contest claims that Mr.¬ÝGooch regarded as mere whims, impudent triflings. Hugh‚Äôs Scotch instinct for a good fighting lawyer had not been at fault when it had taken him to Mr.¬ÝGooch. For the rest, it only remains to be said that Mr.¬ÝGooch was not at all sharp, wizened, ferret-faced, but a stout rubicund man with an enormous flat face that suggested nothing but a sleepy good-humour.
Having bluntly told Miss Trant that he was pleased to meet her and glad to see she was sitting up, Mr.¬ÝGooch came at once to business. ‚ÄúNow, Miss Trant,‚Äù he began, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve looked into this matter. I thought at first it was a hopeless job. You can‚Äôt deny your liability, you see. I‚Äôve had a look at your agreement with the Hippodrome, and your liability‚Äôs there all right. Of course you never thought of anything of this sort happening, did you?‚Äù
“Naturally not,” Miss Trant replied. “Who would? I mean, it’s not the kind of thing that does happen, you see.”
‚ÄúQuite so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch, creasing his vast face. ‚ÄúOnly you‚Äôve got to be prepared for anything in this world. That‚Äôs what agreements and contracts are for. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they‚Äôre only time and money thrown away, but there‚Äôs always the hundredth. This is it. It‚Äôs a pity you put your name to that agreement, Miss Trant, if you don‚Äôt mind me saying so. These theatrical lettings are out of my line‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt pretend to know a lot about ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that one you signed doesn‚Äôt look right to me, smells fishy, that one. And that‚Äôs going to be worth looking into, I fancy‚ÅÝ‚Äîafterwards, just to make a bit of mischief. But it‚Äôs watertight, no mistake about that. You‚Äôre liable, and when they claim, you‚Äôll have to pay up.‚Äù Having said this, he looked at her in a manner that suggested he was quite pleased about it.
Miss Trant was not pleased and came to the conclusion that Mr.¬ÝGooch was a fool. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a shame,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúI wouldn‚Äôt care if it was my fault in any way. But it wasn‚Äôt, as you know, and I‚Äôve had to suffer anyhow. I and my party have lost money, you see, quite apart from anything I may have to pay. And then we‚Äôve suffered in other ways too. And all because a few hooligans were determined to spoil our performance.‚Äù
Here Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane muttered something that hinted what he would do to such fellows if he caught them. It may have concerned their parathyroid glands.
‚ÄúQuite so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch again, still smiling good-humouredly. ‚ÄúBut though we might whittle the claim down a bit when it comes‚ÅÝ‚Äîit hasn‚Äôt come yet, you know, but it‚Äôs on its way, you might say‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe can‚Äôt contest it. I want to make you understand that, Miss Trant. That‚Äôs clear, isn‚Äôt it? All right, then that‚Äôs settled.‚Äù
He still seemed very pleased with himself, and Miss Trant began to think that even poor Mr.¬ÝTruby, though he may have been thinking for months she was wrong in her head, could have done better than this. And what made it much worse was that he was Hugh‚Äôs choice. Poor Hugh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe had looked so knowing about his Mr.¬ÝGooch.
‚ÄúBut there‚Äôs another point,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch continued, with relish, ‚Äúand this is where we really come in. You‚Äôre responsible to them, all right. But who‚Äôs responsible to you? Who, in fact, is the guilty party?‚Äù He paused and looked at her expectantly.
She gave a mental if not an actual shrug. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs soon settled too,‚Äù she replied, not without irony, ‚Äúbut it doesn‚Äôt help much. A gang of roughs‚ÅÝ‚Äîfrom nowhere. If it hadn‚Äôt been for them, nothing would have happened. But what good will that do us‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, knowing that? Oh‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs all stupid! I‚Äôm sorry, but it really is.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt might turn out stupid for somebody,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch, who was quite unperturbed, ‚Äúbut it‚Äôs not half so stupid as it looks. Quite tricky up to a point, in fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite tricky. I didn‚Äôt want to bother you just now with all this, but I thought you‚Äôd better know the line I‚Äôm taking. If you don‚Äôt mind waiting a minute, I‚Äôll just see if he‚Äôs here. I left a message for him to come along.‚Äù With that, he lumbered out, leaving Miss Trant staring at her companion.
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt understand what he‚Äôs talking about,‚Äù she confessed, frowning. ‚ÄúIs he‚ÅÝ‚Äîreally‚ÅÝ‚Äîa reliable man?‚Äù
Hugh laughed. “I’ve been watching you, Elizabeth. I saw you thought he wasn’t going to be any use to you.”
‚ÄúNo, that‚Äôs not fair. I didn‚Äôt. Only‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Just wait. He’s here.”
He was and there was somebody with him. It was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, tightly clutching his cap and looking very embarrassed. He gave her a very uneasy grin.
‚ÄúWell, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù and she smiled, ‚Äúthis is very nice. I didn‚Äôt expect to see you.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd cleared his throat. ‚ÄúAr yer getting on, Miss Trant?‚Äù
“Very well, thank you. What have you been doing lately?”
‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve been busy‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike.‚Äù And he nodded towards Mr.¬ÝGooch.
‚ÄúOh!‚Äù cried Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt understand. You‚Äôve come here with Mr.¬ÝGooch, have you?‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, more at ease now. ‚ÄúAny rate, he left word for me to come here. Said I‚Äôd better tell yer mysen.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd you got hold of the other chap,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch inquired, putting his head on one side in a droll fashion, ‚Äúmade sure of him, did you?‚Äù
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs here,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs here, is he?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch was quite lively. ‚ÄúWhere? Outside?‚Äù
‚ÄúOn t‚Äômat,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, grinning. ‚ÄúD‚Äôyou want him in?‚Äù
‚ÄúIf Miss Trant doesn‚Äôt mind,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch, glancing at her.
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Miss Trant, staring at them. “But what is it all about?” And she suddenly began to laugh.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs like this here, Miss Trant,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began, earnestly; ‚ÄúAfter that there do o‚Äô Saturday, I begins to put two an‚Äô two together. There‚Äôd been summat up all t‚Äôweek, though it were nowt to Saturday. Saturday capped t‚Äôlot, as yer knaw very well. Nar there‚Äôs one or two had said to me they thowt it were a put-up job, them chaps makking all that to-do. I didn‚Äôt like look on it at all, I didn‚Äôt. So I put my thinking cap on.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the way,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch approvingly. ‚ÄúThinking cap.‚Äù
‚ÄúNar a friend o‚Äô mine that doesn‚Äôt belong here but ‚Äôud been here a bit, this chap ‚Äôud dropped a remark to me when I saw him last week‚ÅÝ‚Äîit were in t‚ÄôMarket Tavern o‚Äô Thursday‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô when I towd him I was here wi‚Äô T‚ÄôGood Companions, then he says, ‚ÄòYou had any bother lately, ‚Äôcos you‚Äôre going to have some right sharp?‚Äô Summat like that, he says. Well, I didn‚Äôt tak‚Äô much notice on it at time, an‚Äô he were off afore I could say owt. So I lets it drop, you might say. But t‚Äôother day, o‚Äô Monday it wor, when I begins to puzzle it out a bit, I thowt, ‚ÄòAr did he knaw we‚Äôd have some bother?‚Äô He‚Äôd said we would have and‚ÅÝ‚Äîby gow!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôd had some bother an‚Äô all. So I puts two an‚Äô two together. I thowt to mysen, ‚ÄòHe‚Äôs in t‚Äôknow, he is. If this here‚Äôs a put-up job, he‚Äôs been where they‚Äôve been putting it up, as you might say.‚Äô That‚Äôs what I thowt.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝGooch wagged his huge head at Miss Trant. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the way,‚Äù he said once more. ‚ÄúThinking cap again.‚Äù
Miss Trant was interested now. ‚ÄúGo on, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. This is exciting.‚Äù
‚ÄúSo I sets off to look for him, this here friend o‚Äô mine. Any rate, I maks a few inquiries. Meantime, I goes to see Jimmy Nunn, an‚Äô he tells me what Soosie towd him about Doctor McFarlane here going to Mr.¬ÝGoodge about this here job, so I goes to Mr.¬ÝGoodge an‚Äô all an‚Äô tells him what I think about it an‚Äô he says there might be summat in it an‚Äô I‚Äôd better keep on looking for this friend o‚Äô mine, d‚Äôyou see. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll do what I can,‚Äô he says, ‚Äòto help you to find him. What‚Äôs he like?‚Äô he says. An‚Äô I tells him, an‚Äô off I goes again an‚Äô comes on one chap ‚Äôat ‚Äôud seen him an‚Äô he puts me on to another chap. Eh, it were a business! But at finish up, I finds him.‚Äù
“Was he here in Gatford?” Miss Trant asked.
‚ÄúHere! He wor fowty mile away an‚Äô just settin‚Äô off to go another fowty or fifty. He‚Äôs allus on t‚Äômove,‚Äù he added, not without pride. ‚ÄúI were wi‚Äô him one time‚ÅÝ‚Äîon t‚Äôroad. If I hadn‚Äôt been, he wouldn‚Äôt ha‚Äô come back. He worn‚Äôt set on it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôcos he didn‚Äôt want to be mixed up in t‚Äôjob‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he come i‚Äô t‚Äôfinish, being a pal o‚Äô mine.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, we‚Äôd better have him in now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch, ‚Äúunless Miss Trant doesn‚Äôt want to be bothered. You can leave it all to me, you know, Miss Trant, but I thought you might like to hear what he has to say.‚Äù
“I should think so!” cried Miss Trant. “Hurry up and bring him before he runs away.”
‚ÄúNay, he‚Äôll noan do that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, almost reproachfully. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll fetch him.‚Äù And off he went.
‚ÄúAnd you really think there‚Äôs something in this?‚Äù said Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane, looking anxiously at Mr.¬ÝGooch.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm pretty sure there is,‚Äù that gentleman replied, smiling and half-closing his eyes. ‚ÄúPre‚Äëtty sure there is.‚Äù Then he opened his eyes, wide. ‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt tell you exactly what‚ÅÝ‚Äînot yet.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, whether there is or not,‚Äù cried Miss Trant excitedly, ‚Äúit‚Äôs lovely. And I hope there is, just for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs sake. I‚Äôve told you about him, haven‚Äôt I, Hugh?‚Äù
‚ÄúThis is him,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, returning at that moment, ‚ÄúJoby Jackson. Nar, Joby lad, yer can tell ‚Äôem yersen.‚Äù
Our old friend Mr.¬ÝJackson looked from one to another of his audience and rubbed his chin dubiously. We see him for a moment robbed of that bright confidence which was part of his charm.
‚ÄúNow then?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs like this,‚Äù said Joby hoarsely. ‚ÄúYer not making a police-court job o‚Äô this, are yer? If y‚Äôare, I want to keep out, see? Anything to oblige a pal‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô anyhow they did the dirty on yer‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I don‚Äôt want to be put in a little box with a clever bloke on the other side saying, ‚ÄòAnd where were you on the fourteenth of July last?‚Äô No witnessing for me. Oh no! I‚Äôll tell yer what I know for George ‚Äôere, but yer don‚Äôt put me in the box, see?‚Äù
‚ÄúThere isn‚Äôt going to be a box; don‚Äôt worry,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch. ‚ÄúIt isn‚Äôt that sort of business at all.‚Äù
‚ÄúGood enough then,‚Äù said Joby, hesitating no longer and speaking with more freedom. ‚ÄúWhat yer want to know is ‚Äôow did I come to know there might be a bit o‚Äô bother, that‚Äôs it, isn‚Äôt it? Right.‚Äù He paused, gave a sharp glance round, thoroughly enjoying the situation. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm ‚Äôere in Gatford, see. One morning in a boozer‚ÅÝ‚Äînot the Market Tavern, lower class of ‚Äôouse altogether‚ÅÝ‚Äîtell yer its moniker in a minute‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Black Bull, that‚Äôs it. Know it?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝGooch pondered for a moment. ‚ÄúCorner of Castle Street,‚Äù he said finally. ‚ÄúLittle place. Nearly got its licence taken away last year.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the place,‚Äù said Joby. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm in there, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîone morning, havin‚Äô one with some o‚Äô the lads. When I say some o‚Äô the lads, I don‚Äôt mean they was pals o‚Äô mine. But I knew some of ‚Äôem. Matter o‚Äô fact, some of ‚Äôem was on the road, same as meself. They wasn‚Äôt workin‚Äô just then, ‚Äôcos Gorley‚Äôs place is near ‚Äôere, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô Gorley‚Äôs the feller that owns some o‚Äô them Cock‚Äôrels and Swishbacks‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they was ‚Äôere, waitin‚Äô for the engines to be over‚Äôaulded, see. The other fellers I didn‚Äôt know-local fellers, they was, all in a click, y‚Äôknow, a gang, with about the price of a pint between the lot of ‚Äôem. Well there we are‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen in comes a feller, a biggish bloke, all dressed up, smart feller. One or two o‚Äô the lads knows ‚Äôim, see, same as if they‚Äôd done a bit o‚Äô work for ‚Äôim one time, when they did work. This feller then looks us over, nods ‚Äôere an‚Äô there, very friendly like, calls the landlord an‚Äô orders drinks all round. Sensation in court! Then when the landlord‚Äôs gone and we‚Äôre all well into the pig‚Äôs ear, he sort o‚Äô gathers us round like an‚Äô says quietly, ‚ÄòAny o‚Äô you fellers like to earn some easy money?‚Äô ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs the idear?‚Äô we want to know. ‚ÄòOnly a bit of a joke on my part,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚Äòjust payin‚Äô somebody off,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚Äòan‚Äô money for nothing for some o‚Äô you lads.‚Äô He didn‚Äôt look a money-for-nothing bloke to me, I don‚Äôt mind tellin yer, an‚Äô when ‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòBefore we go any further, who‚Äôs game?,‚Äô I didn‚Äôt catch on, see. I thought, ‚ÄòI don‚Äôt like the look of you, chum. Bit too careful about your joke. Too much lookin‚Äô over the shoulder.‚Äô So me an‚Äô two or three more wasn‚Äôt in it, see, an‚Äô we sits in the other corner, tryin‚Äô to look as if we wasn‚Äôt still drinkin‚Äô the beer he paid for. ‚ÄôE whispers for about ten minutes, then slings it. But I got a word or two, something about a show at the Hip. When ‚Äôe goes, the other fellers lets on then, see. ‚ÄòWhy don‚Äôt yer come in?‚Äô they says to us. ‚ÄòQuid each for sittin‚Äô at the back o‚Äô the Hip. an‚Äô giving ‚Äôem the bird, an‚Äô p‚Äôraps another quid for Saturday if it pans out all right,‚Äô they says‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“And those were the men then,” Miss Trant gasped. “But why? I don’t understand. Who was this man?”
‚ÄúNow we come to it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch. ‚ÄúWho was he?‚Äù
‚ÄúI ‚Äôeard ‚Äôis name,‚Äù Joby replied slowly, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôcos, as I say, some of ‚Äôem knew ‚Äôim‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Good! And what was it?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it. I‚Äôve forgotten it. Clean gone. An‚Äô me with a memory, my God! that‚Äôs won me more pints o‚Äô beer in bets than you could swallow from now to‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúCome along,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch. ‚ÄúThis won‚Äôt do, you know. You might as well give us the name now. It‚Äôs just that we want.‚Äù
“It’s no good yer coming along me,” cried Joby aggressively. “Yer can come along till yer blue an’ it won’t make no difference. I’ve tried to remember that feller’s moniker all day. ’Ere, George, you can tell ’em. Wasn’t I tryin’ to remember it all along the road’ere?”
‚ÄúAy, yer wor, Joby,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd replied mournfully. It began to look as if he had had all his trouble for nothing.
‚ÄúWell, can‚Äôt you remember anything about him?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch, who looked neither sleepy nor good-humoured now.
“Let’s see. ’Alf a minute. Biggish bloke. Clean-shaved. Reddish face. Baggy under the eyes, poached-egg style. Too much whisky.” But that did not seem to help much, for Gatford and district could boast of dozens of middle-aged gentlemen exactly like that. Then Joby remembered something else. “ ’Ere, ’alf a minute. Pitchers. Something to do with pitchers.”
‚ÄúPitchers?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch stared at him.
“That’s ri’. Yer know, films, cinemas!”
‚ÄúAh!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch sounded triumphant. ‚ÄúWas his name Ridvers?‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got it, chum,‚Äù shouted Joby, in great excitement. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got it in one. Ridvers, that‚Äôs it. Now ‚Äôow the‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôow did I come to forget that? Ridvers. That‚Äôs it all right an‚Äô no mistake. Do yer know‚Äôim, Mister?‚Äù
‚ÄúI know Mr.¬ÝRidvers,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝGooch replied, a trifle grimly, ‚Äúand Mr.¬ÝRidvers knows me. I don‚Äôt think I shall have a lot of trouble with Mr.¬ÝRidvers. I happen to know he‚Äôs trying to sell his three cinema halls to a big syndicate. In fact, I know a lot about Mr.¬ÝRidvers. And now I know a bit more, don‚Äôt I? Well, well! Hello!‚Äù He stared at Miss Trant, who was wrinkling her brow. ‚ÄúDo you know him too?‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm just trying to think. There was a man, a horrid man, pushed his way into my room at the hotel one afternoon, two or three weeks ago, and he said he had something to do with cinemas here. He was awfully rude and disagreeable‚ÅÝ‚Äîa beast of a man‚ÅÝ‚Äîand so I wouldn‚Äôt listen to him, just told him to go. And I heard afterwards that some of the men in the party had some trouble with him after that, downstairs. I‚Äôm sure that must be the same man.‚Äù
‚ÄúSo am I,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve a mind to call on this Ridvers,‚Äù Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane began, looking very fierce.
‚ÄúLeave him to me, Doctor, leave him to me,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGooch. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll attend to him. He‚Äôs had his little joke, and this is where he pays for it.‚Äù He turned to Joby. ‚ÄúAnd don‚Äôt you worry about courts of law. This won‚Äôt get that far, if I know Mr.¬ÝRidvers; But I tell you what you can do, my lad, and I‚Äôll see you don‚Äôt lose by it. You can just give me as many names of those other fellows as you can remember. That‚Äôll help us to show Mr.¬ÝRidvers we know all about his little games.‚Äù He whipped out paper and pencil and took Joby aside.
‚ÄúWell done, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù said Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane, shaking him by the hand. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs fine.‚Äù
“Isn’t it?” cried Miss Trant. “Whatever happens, I’m very very grateful to you. You’ve been wonderful, finding all this out for us.”
“Nay, I’ve done nowt. It’s Joby who’ll ha’ done t’trick.”
“No, it’s you really, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am. And listen, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, now that we’ve all broken up. Aren’t you sorry?”
‚ÄúEh, I am, Miss Trant. I don‚Äôt like thowt on us all leavin‚Äô one another, I don‚Äôt. Ther‚Äôs Soos an‚Äô Inigo off this afternoon‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm off to t‚Äôstation wi‚Äô em if I can get‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô though I‚Äôm right glad they‚Äôre doing so well, I‚Äôll be right sorry to see ‚Äôem go, I will that. Eh, we‚Äôve had wer bit o‚Äô fun together, three on us.‚Äù
“But tell me,” said Miss Trant, looking at him very earnestly, “what are you going to do? I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”
‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve been so throng wi‚Äô this business, I don‚Äôt fairly knaw. Ther‚Äôs been a bit o‚Äô talk about it. Soos wants me to go to London afore so long, ‚Äôcos she fancies she can get me summat to do there. An‚Äô Joe says if I went wi‚Äô them, p‚Äôraps ther‚Äôd be a job there‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd I don‚Äôt know exactly what I‚Äôm going to do,‚Äù she said, ‚Äúbut that‚Äôs what I was going to say to you too. But look here, will you talk to the others seriously today, and then come to see me‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîtomorrow morning sometime, and then we can talk about it properly. Will you do that?‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I will,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd solemnly, and then awkwardly took his leave of her. But he did not talk it over with the others and he did not call upon her the next morning.
‚ÄúYer mun come an‚Äô have a bit o‚Äô dinner wi‚Äô me, Joby lad,‚Äù he said, as they left the nursing home in triumph. ‚ÄúI towd t‚Äôlandlady yer might‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs a right good sort is this, an‚Äô I‚Äôve been there a time nar‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô she‚Äôll have it ready.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm with yer, George,‚Äù said Joby in great content. He had been promised a reward for his services by Mr.¬ÝGooch, and, reward or no reward, had enjoyed his morning.
They had hardly set foot in the house, however, before the landlady rushed up and thrust something in Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face, just as if it had been there some time and she was anxious to get rid of it, fearing that it would explode at any moment. And indeed this is indeed exactly what she felt, for the thing she handed over was a telegram. At the sight of it Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs triumphant morning crashed to smithereens. ‚ÄúBy gow!‚Äù he muttered, staring.
It was Joby’s turn to read it now. Come at once mother bad. Leonard. He made a little clucking noise. “That’s ruddy ’ard lines, George,” he said, seriously, sympathetically. “The old trouble-and-strife, eh? Bad, eh? Aw, that’s rotten, George. ’Ope for the best, though.”
‚ÄúI knew ther were summat. I did, I knew,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was muttering. Then he looked at Joby. ‚ÄúI mun be off soon as I can. When‚Äôs t‚Äônext train up there, lad?‚Äù
Joby knew, for he was an authority on trains. There was one in the middle of the afternoon, and this gave him time after dinner to scrawl his Bruddersford address and a few words of explanation on a bit of paper, to be conveyed to Miss Trant by “t’landlady’s little lad,” to put his things together and settle his bill, to hurry round and say goodbye to Susie and Inigo. There was no time to see the others, but perhaps they would not be gone when he returned, if he did return. Joby went with him to the station, though his own train did not go until five o’clock.
‚ÄúAll the best, George. An‚Äô don‚Äôt forget‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson, World‚Äôs Fair‚ÅÝ‚Äîfinds me ev‚Äôry time, see. Keep smilin‚Äô.‚Äù
“So long, Joby lad. See thee again some day. On t’road, eh?”
And then the train went roaring North.
VI
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd Goes Home
I
It was deep dusk when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs train arrived at Black Moor Junction. He could see the street lamps twinkling on the hills, and here and there trams crawling up and down like golden beetles. The train stopped several minutes at Black Moor, as it always does, and then, having lost all its enthusiasm, it slowly chuff-chuffed into the gloom until at last it came to a standstill in Bruddersford Station. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stepped out, carrying the small suitcase that for some time had replaced the famous little basket trunk, and made his way to the exit with all the easy dispatch of a travelled man. He could dismiss railway stations with a glance now, having been so long and so far on the road, all the autumn and winter, from Sandybay as far up as Middleford. This was really the first time he had come back to Bruddersford since he began his travels, for though he had visited Ogden Street just after Christmas, he had only gone by tram from Luddenstall, and that did not count. He had often seen himself coming back like this, arriving by train and so on, having a bit of a holiday like, smoking a leisurely pipe in Woolgate long after everybody else had clattered off to work, slipping round to the Working Men‚Äôs Club at night to tell some of the chaps where he had been and what he had seen. But now it was all different. This trip had a shaky and darkish look about it. As he crossed the end of Market Street to get into Woolgate, the great black tower of the Town Hall jerkly shook out the notes of Tom Bowling, a very melancholy tune on the chimes. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had never admired it, but now he suddenly decided he hated it. How folk put up with such a din was a mystery.
“Here, lad,” he cried, at the corner of Woolgate, “ ’ave you got t’Evening Express?” Buying a paper made him feel a little more cheerful.
Walking up Woolgate, he had a shock. Buttershaw‚Äôs, the tripe and music shop, was closed, empty, to let. Something must have happened there. When was it he had been talking to Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, something about Lily and how she used to go there for pantomime songs? Yes, on a tram, it was, one Saturday. And Joe Buttershaw had been there five-and-twenty year to his knowledge; everybody knew Joe‚Äôs; and now it wasn‚Äôt there. It made everything look uncertain, strange, as if half the street had gone.
Not a sign of anybody in at 51. It was hardly time for Leonard to be home, if he was still working at Gregson’s, but it did not look as if anybody was there. He knocked, though he knew somehow before he put his hand to the door that it was useless, for the place had a real shut-up look about it.
‚ÄúEh, it‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden was looking out of the house next door. ‚ÄúJust a minute, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. I‚Äôve got t‚Äôkey.‚Äù
She opened the door and marched in with him. There was a bit of fire in the grate, and the table was laid for a late tea. Mrs.¬ÝSugden, happily bustling about the room, talked with gusto. ‚ÄúDid your Leonard send for yer? I told him he‚Äôd ‚Äôave to send. And I‚Äôve been doing a bit o‚Äô tidying up for him, an‚Äô getting him his tea. A lad like that can‚Äôt look after hissen, can he? An‚Äô I‚Äôve been right sorry for him, I‚Äôave.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, very uneasy now, asked where his wife was.
‚ÄúEh, didn‚Äôt your Leonard tell yer?‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝSugden, staring at him. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs in t‚ÄôInfirmary. They took her away‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh, when was it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFriday or Saturday‚ÅÝ‚Äîay, it were Friday, ‚Äôcos I were just paying me insurance, I‚Äôd got t‚Äôbook in me ‚Äôand, when they come for her. They ‚Äôad t‚Äôoperate right sharp‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh, she were that bad. She‚Äôd left it so long. She‚Äôd been badly for weeks and weeks. Got a pain ‚Äôere.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden put a hand on her ample side. ‚ÄúI could see she were bad. ‚ÄòEh,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyer can‚Äôt let it go like that, yer mun see t‚Äôdoctor.‚Äô ‚ÄòNo doctors for me, Mrs.¬ÝSugden,‚Äô she says. ‚ÄòI can manage.‚Äô Ay, that‚Äôs just what she said. ‚ÄòI can manage.‚Äô An‚Äô I could see wi‚Äô me own eyes she were bad. At t‚Äôupshot, I calls to your Leonard‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat were t‚Äôbeginning o‚Äô last week‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I says to ‚Äôim, ‚ÄòEh, Leonard, you‚Äôll ha‚Äô to mak‚Äô your mother see t‚Äôdoctor. It‚Äôs no way o‚Äô going on, this isn‚Äôt. She‚Äôs poorly.‚Äô ‚ÄòI think she is,‚Äô he says, ‚Äòthough she‚Äôs said nowt to me.‚Äô ‚ÄòI knaw she is,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll get one,‚Äô he says. But no doctor come that day nor t‚Äôday after. Next morning she couldn‚Äôt get up out o‚Äô bed, she were that bad, an‚Äô I come in for a bit an‚Äô your Leonard fetched t‚Äôdoctor to her, an‚Äô he said they‚Äôd ‚Äôave t‚Äôoperate soon as they could. It were owd Doctor Mackintosh‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôim ‚Äôat sees ‚Äôem at t‚Äôclub‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wor in a state about ‚Äôer. Nivver seen him in sich a stew. He were fairly boiling an‚Äô sweating.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs it she‚Äôs got?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. His voice was so hoarse that he had to clear his throat and repeat the question.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs summat like appendis,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝSugden, ‚Äúonly it‚Äôs farther on like. Your Leonard said summat about perry‚ÅÝ‚Äîperry-totitis, but I couldn‚Äôt quite mak‚Äô it out.‚Äù
“And what about this here operation, did it come off all right?”
‚ÄúOh, they operated, straight off. They ‚Äôad to. Eh, I believe she‚Äôs ‚Äôad another sin‚Äô then, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. I believe she ‚Äôas,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden added, with mournful gusto.
He stared at her in horror. ‚ÄúShe‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe mun be bad then,‚Äù he stammered finally.
‚ÄúEh, she is, poor soul! Your Leonard‚Äôs nobbut seen her once, an‚Äô I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt set eyes on her sin‚Äô she were ta‚Äôen away, but Mrs.¬ÝFlather‚ÅÝ‚Äîher little lass is in‚ÅÝ‚Äîtowed me she were in a bad way, one o‚Äô nurses ‚Äôad said summat to her about it. But we mun hope for t‚Äôbest, that‚Äôs all. An‚Äô standin‚Äô here talkin‚Äô. Sit yer down, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, an‚Äô I‚Äôll mak‚Äô yer a bit o‚Äô tea. Your Leonard‚Äôll be here in a minute‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs his time‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I allus mak‚Äô him a bit. I‚Äôve been bakin‚Äô today. I‚Äôll fetch a curran‚Äô cake an‚Äô a piece o‚Äô fatty cake in, if you‚Äôll just watch t‚Äôkettle a minute.‚Äù
Ten minutes later, she had come and gone again, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was sitting at the table with his son, Leonard, a very subdued Leonard indeed. The dandy huntsman who had marked and captured bright feminine prey in so many social-and-dance halls, cinemas, and cheap caf√©s, had vanished, and in his place was a troubled, frightened lad with a trembling lower lip, a lad who had caught a glimpse of another and dreadful huntsman. He could add very little to the information already supplied by Mrs.¬ÝSugden.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found relief in a sudden spurt of anger. ‚ÄúYer gurt fathead,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúwhy didn‚Äôt you let me know afore ‚Äôat your mother was so poorly? Haven‚Äôt sense you were born wi‚Äô!‚Äù
“I couldn’t,” Leonard mumbled miserably.
“Ar, d’you mean you couldn’t? Course you could!”
“I couldn’t. I told you, I didn’t know at first, and then when Mar was taken so bad, she said, ‘Don’t tell yer father.’ It’s last thing she did say to me.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs anger fell away from him. He stared down at the table. ‚ÄúWhat did she want to say that for?‚Äù he asked quietly, at last.
“Nay, I don’t know,” his son muttered. “Except she didn’t want you to know.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed away his cap, and made a little sad clicking noise. ‚ÄúWhen I come at Christmas, I knew she were poorly then, an‚Äô I towd her so. An‚Äô I towd our Lily she wor in a letter I wrote. Eh, dear!‚Äù For a moment he surveyed in silence the whole melancholy confusion of this life. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll go to t‚ÄôInfirmary i‚Äô t‚Äômorning. Happen they‚Äôll let me see her. What did they say when you asked today?‚Äù
“Said she was just about the same. She’s bad. Father; she is bad.” He got up from the table and turned away.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd automatically filled his pipe with Old Salt, but did not light it. He remained where he was at the table, flattening his cheek against his fist, and sank into a troubled reverie. Leonard went upstairs, came down again, smoked a cigarette over the fire.
“Me Aunt Alice came last night,” Leonard remarked, breaking the long silence.
‚ÄúAy, she did, did she?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd left the table now and lit his pipe. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô ar‚Äôs she gettin‚Äô on then?‚Äù His wife‚Äôs sister, this Alice, was married to a railwayman, and lived at the other side of Bruddersford. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had not seen her for years. As a matter of fact, he disliked both her and her husband.
“All right,” said Leonard indifferently. “Me cousin Mabel’s gettin’ married soon.”
“Well, well! Last time I saw Mabel she were nobbut a bit of a kid wi’ a mucky pinafore, as you might say. And nar she’s gettin’ wed. Who’s t’chap?”
‚ÄúJohnson, they call him. He works in the railway office‚ÅÝ‚Äîpen-pusher. You might think he owned it, to hear him talk. Lot o‚Äô swank! And Mabel‚Äôs no kid now. She‚Äôs over a year older than me, nearly as old as our Lily.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou haven‚Äôt said owt to our Lily yet, have you?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd anxiously.
Leonard shook his head. “I haven’t written her a letter for two months. She doesn’t write to me. You’ll be writing, won’t you?”
What was he going to write? The thought chilled him, but warmth returned with the thought of Lily herself. If only she were here with him! But no, she was better out of it. He stared about him, then suddenly remembered something. “Here,” he cried, “where’s Albert? I’d forgotten him.”
“Gone. Went a fortnight since.”
“Well, that’s summat, anyhow. A bit o’ yon Albert’s talk nar ’ud just about put finishing touch on it. An’ what’s happened to him then?”
‚ÄúGettin‚Äô married this week.‚Äù And Leonard grinned sardonically. ‚ÄúGot caught all right, Mr.¬ÝTuggridge did. Told him he would, but he wouldn‚Äôt leave her alone. They didn‚Äôt give him any option, neither, when they knew. Her father come to see him. Poor old Albert!‚Äù Yes, his days as a wandering gallant were over. No more ogling and pursuing and picking up for him. He had picked up once too often. He had ‚Äúgot caught‚Äù and would soon be seen with a perambulator.
‚ÄúPoor owd nothing!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd scornfully. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry for t‚Äôlass as weds him. Gurt clever head‚ÅÝ‚Äîgasbag! An‚Äô that‚Äôs no way for you to talk, neither, lad,‚Äù he added severely. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄòGot caught‚Äô! It makes me fair shamed to hear a lad o‚Äô mine talking that way. If I‚Äôd said owt o‚Äô that sort in front o‚Äô my father, he‚Äôd ha‚Äô ta‚Äôen a stick to my back, he would that. D‚Äôyer think t‚Äôlasses is nobbut for you to go follerin‚Äô round an‚Äô laking wi‚Äô? What d‚Äôyer think they are‚ÅÝ‚Äîbits o‚Äô toys?‚Äù He regarded his son sternly for a moment. ‚ÄúAr yer doin‚Äô at yer work? Still wi‚Äô Gregson‚Äôs?‚Äù
“Yes,” Leonard replied, rather sulkily. “Doing all right. Got the second chair now and a lot of reg’lar customers. I’m making nearly four pounds a week.”
“That’s the style. Well, happen you’ll be better off when you ‘get caught’ as you call it. Might knock a bit o’ sense into you if a decent lass gets howd on you. You nivver knaw.”
‚ÄúChap offered me a job in Manchester the other day,‚Äù Leonard mumbled, ‚Äúand I‚Äôd like to have taken it. More money and a change. I‚Äôm getting sick of Bruddersford. If‚ÅÝ‚Äîif owt happens to me mother I shall go.‚Äù He swallowed hard.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd relaxed the severity of his expression. ‚ÄúAy, lad, you mun do whativver you think best. I‚Äôve no call to be tellin‚Äô you what to do. An‚Äô whativver else you‚Äôve done, you‚Äôve noan been a bad lad to your mother.‚Äù
Having said this, he cleared his throat, and looked sternly at the evening paper, as if he knew very well he could not believe a word it said. Leonard, muttering something about ‚Äúa walk round,‚Äù disappeared. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd read the paper through carefully, unhopefully, smoked a pipe or two and stared solemnly at the fire, then went to bed.
II
The Bruddersford Infirmary could not be mistaken for one of the local factories because it has no tall chimney. Otherwise there is little difference. It is a rambling ugly building, all in blackened stone and surrounded first by an asphalt courtyard, where the smuts drizzle ceaselessly, and then by tall iron railings that would not seem out of place around a prison. Through these railings a nurse may be seen occasionally, and as she flits across those grim spaces of stone and soot she looks like a being from another world, incredibly immaculate. Here, out of the sunlight, far from green shades and blue distances, where no birds sing, but where the lorries and steam-wagons come thundering down and the trams go groaning up the hill, here behind this rusting iron and walls thickened with black grime, the Bruddersfordians have a bout or two, a tussle, or a fight to a finish, with Death.
The last time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had visited the Infirmary was to see a friend of his from Higden‚Äôs, a good many years ago. He could hardly remember what it looked like inside. He was familiar enough with the outside, for the place was not quarter of a mile from Ogden Street and for years he had walked past it nearly every day. This morning, however, even the outside seemed strange. His wife was somewhere inside it, behind one of those dark windows.
“Is it special?” asked the porter, “ ’cos this isn’t visiting time, yer knaw.”
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know fairly,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI wer sent for, like, an‚Äô I‚Äôve come a long way.‚Äù
“If yer’ll howd on a minute, I’ll see. What’s t’name again? All right. Yer can wait in there.” And the porter, after pointing to a door, turned away.
There were several people in the bare little waiting-room. One of them was an enormously fat woman, wrapped in a shawl. The tears were streaming down her face, and she made no attempt to dry her eyes, but repeated over and over again, without any variation of tone: “They nivver owt to ha’ let him come in, nivver.”
On the other side was an oldish man, whose drooping face Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dimly recognized. ‚ÄúFower operations in eighteen months, that‚Äôs what she‚Äôs had,‚Äù he was saying. ‚ÄúFower operations.‚Äù There was mournful pride in his voice. He looked round, nodded vaguely to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and then began again: ‚ÄúAy, fower operations.‚Äù
The others there, including two children, said nothing at all. They just waited, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had an obscure conviction that they had been waiting a long time. His heart sank. He wanted to go away.
The porter was standing at the door, beckoning to him. “Oakroyd, isn’t it? That’s Num‑ber Twen‑ty-sev‑en, List‑er Ward. Well, t’sister says she’s very sorry but yer can’t see ’er now but will you come again this afternoon.”
‚ÄúI see,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and immediately found himself invaded by a feeling of relief. He tried to be disappointed, told himself he must see her as soon as he could, but nevertheless he could not help feeling relieved. He had been in there only a few minutes, had not really been inside, but even so it was comforting to be back again in the bustle of Woolgate. Something dogged him, however, throughout his stroll through the main streets. He was like a chap out on bail.
He called again in the early afternoon, only to be told to return later. Then at last he was admitted. He climbed up four flights of stone steps and then found Lister Ward. A nurse met him at the entrance. ‚ÄúLet me see,‚Äù she said, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre for Number Seventeen‚ÅÝ‚Äîlittle Doris Smith‚ÅÝ‚Äîaren‚Äôt you?‚Äù
When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told her he was wanting Number Twenty-seven, she seemed disappointed, and this made him all the more uncomfortable, as if he had no right to be there.
“Yes, I remember now,” she said, looking all round him but not at him. “Sister said you could see her, didn’t she? You’re the husband, aren’t you? She hasn’t been asking for you. There’s a son, isn’t there? I thought I’d seen him. This way then, and don’t make too much noise. This isn’t the proper visiting day, and you mustn’t disturb the others.”
He crept after her in a fashion that would not have disturbed a fly. He tiptoed so gently that his legs ached. They had to go almost the whole length of the ward, and though he tried to see as little of it as possible, he could not help noticing some things. All the women were in bed and they all seemed to have something blue on; some were old, some very young; some asleep, some staring fiercely; and there were strange things, pulley arrangements, on some of the beds; and one or two were completely surrounded by screens. No moaning and groaning; not a sound, it was all as quiet as a waxwork show; all tidy and polished and still; very queer, frightening.
The nurse suddenly stopped. She turned round, looking right at him this time. “Your wife’s very ill, you know,” she whispered. “You must be very quiet with her. Don’t mind if she’s not very clear, wandering a little. Just a minute.” She walked forward to a bed, and he heard her say: “Now, Twenty-seven, your husband’s come to see you.” What else she said he did not know, but he saw her leaning over the bed, doing something, and then she stepped back and nodded to him. He tiptoed forward, feeling horribly clumsy, uncertain. One hand, held behind him, was tightening, tightening, until its nails were digging into the horny palm. Then he stood by the bedside, looking down into the face of Number Twenty-seven.
‚ÄúEh, lass,‚Äù he said huskily. He tried to smile, but could only make a grimace. ‚ÄúNay‚ÅÝ‚Äînay.‚Äù And there seemed nothing more he could say.
Her face was all bone and sharp wrinkles and seemed as brittle as eggshell. Her mouth was a short line, dark, bitter. But her eyes, though they wandered with an awful slowness, still gleamed in their hollows, and there looked out from those eyes the soul, stubborn, unflinching, ironic, of Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. He himself could feel this, though he had no words for it. But an inner voice was saying ‚ÄúEh, she‚Äôll nivver give in,‚Äù and he stared at her in mingled pity and awe.
Her eyes roamed over him. She stirred a little and there came a sickly sweet smell. A hand travelled slowly over the folded sheet, and as he sat down he grasped it. His face working desperately but to no purpose.
‚ÄúJess? What‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou doing here?‚Äù
“Our Leonard sent.”
At the mention of Leonard those eyes changed, softened. They would not do that for anything else now, it seemed.
“I didn’t tell him to.” Her voice was clear but slow, a voice speaking out of a dream.
“He thowt he’d better send word. He’s been a good lad. I told him he’s been a good lad to his mother.”
‚ÄúTime you thowt so,‚Äù she said, with a flash of the old sharp spirit. ‚ÄúAy, ay, a good lad‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ our Leonard. Is he coming soon?‚Äù
“Soon as he can or whenivver you want him,” he told her.
She nodded, very slowly, so that it hurt him to watch her doing it. Then she looked away, at nothing it seemed, as if he was no longer there. He waited through a shrinking and numbing silence. At last, however, she looked at him again, and it was as if she had returned from far away and was faintly surprised to find him still there. He tried to think of something to say, but there seemed to be nothing he could say and somehow his voice too had rusted away.
“I’m bad, Jess,” she said finally.
His voice came back. “Eh, lass, why didn’t you tell me afore?”
She did not seem to hear this. “I wish they’d let me alone,” she muttered. “They can do nowt.”
“Nay, they will,” he said, and tried to convince himself that they could do something though in his heart he knew they could not.
‚ÄúCan‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt I do owt?‚Äù he asked desperately.
To this she made no reply beyond looking at him searchingly, with a faint gleam of irony in her eyes. When it faded and she stirred again, it seemed as if he had been dismissed. Her hand crept out of his and moved uneasily over the sheet. When she spoke again, she began wandering. There was something about their Lily, about Higden’s, about a peggy-tub she had borrowed; all a dreamy jumble. The nurse came up quietly and touched him on the shoulder. He stood up, looked on while she gave his wife something to drink.
“You’d better go now,” she told him. But she withdrew for a moment.
His wife looked at him, steadily now. “Going, Jess, now, aren’t yer? Yer managed all right for yersen when yer went away, didn’t yer?”
“I nivver owt to ha’ gone.”
“Nay, lad, I don’t know. You’ve done nowt to be sorry for. Couldn’t be helped. Are yer going on all right?”
He nodded.
‚ÄúBetter so, then,‚Äù she went on. ‚ÄúAnd our Leonard‚Äôs doing right well. Eh, he is‚ÅÝ‚Äîright well!‚Äù She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him again, with the wizened ghost of a smile. ‚ÄúYer mun go and see our Lily some time if yer can get. That‚Äôs what you‚Äôve allus wanted, isn‚Äôt it? Nay, Jess, I know. Tell our Leonard to come tonight.‚Äù
This time, when he found himself outside in Woolgate again, he also found that he had not really left the Infirmary behind. It was the streets and shops, the trams and lorries, the whole noisy bustling business, that seemed grotesque, unreal now. Half of him still went tiptoeing in that long room of beds and blue-covered shoulders, of pulley things and screens. The quiet of it remained with him and conjured away all the solid reality from the traffic of the streets. What was all the commotion about? Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not say all these things to himself; he could not have found words for most of them; but nevertheless he felt them. You could have read them in his wondering glances as you passed him in the street.
When he went the next day, she was obviously weaker. Her eyes had a drugged look; she mumbled in her talk; and nearly everything she said was disconnected, wandering, the old wreckage of dreams and scattered memories. He sat there for an hour, staring sadly, squeezing his fingers, and then crept away, hurt, and frightened.
In the evening, he went again, with Leonard, and they were told they could go up to the ward. They were not admitted, however; the sister said it had been a mistake: Number Twenty-seven could not be seen just then. Perhaps it might be as well if they stayed some time in the waiting-room below. And they caught a glimpse through the door of screens round the bed. They waited an hour, two hours, turning over evening papers that seemed to say nothing, starting up every time the door was opened. It was late. They inquired again, and were told it was useless waiting any longer. There was no change; they must hope for the best; everything that could be done was being done. But next morning, before the earliest buzzers had sounded, Number Twenty-seven was dead.
After he had visited the cold little chapel, where the body would remain until the undertaker wanted it, they put into his hand a parcel wrapped in brown paper, and mechanically he accepted it and took it home, and mechanically he opened it there. Some clothes; a brush and comb; a little envelope, out of which rolled a wedding-ring. There was something else in the envelope. False teeth.
‚ÄúEh, well I don‚Äôt know!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝSugden, who was forever in the house now. ‚ÄúWhat they want to bother yer with them things for? Poor soul! They‚Äôve ner more sense than‚ÅÝ‚Äînay, I don‚Äôt know!‚Äù
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd only nodded and then stumped away.
III
He did what had to be done without protest. He helped Leonard to put something in the paper. He saw the undertaker and the insurance man. He sent a cable to Lily, and this alone of all his duties brought about a thaw inside his numbed self. When the man explained how it could be sent and when it would probably get there, he felt a sudden warmth and wanted to cry. For the rest, he did what he had to do, but was so quiet that his wife‚Äôs relations, who came pouring in with her sister, Alice Bairstow, at their head, did not know what to make of him. Noisy and red-eyed but secretly rejoicing in their own immortality, they discussed him in corners. It was Mrs.¬ÝSugden‚Äôs opinion that he was ‚Äútaking it ‚Äôard,‚Äù but though her position as sympathetic neighbour and tea-brewer to the bereaved was recognized, it was held that her opinion on this matter was uncalled-for and therefore of no consequence. Mrs.¬ÝBairstow was heard to say that what really troubled her brother-in-law was remorse, as well it might. He had gone off God knows where and left her to it, and this is what had come of it. But she did not go so far as to say this to him. All she did was to deal with him in a spirit of large but strained tolerance, and make a great fuss of Leonard. Once or twice Mr.¬ÝOakroyd glowered at her and was obviously on the point of saying something sharp, but most of the time he simply humped about, looking grey and wooden, and nodded agreement to everything she said. What she did say chiefly concerned the funeral, which was to be in the best traditions of Ogden Street. She sent out a host of invitations, and pledged the forthcoming insurance money royally.
It was on the morning of the funeral that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd received a letter. For a moment, he thought it must be from Lily, and his heart leaped up, but as soon as he saw it was not, he lost interest at once and stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. There would be plenty of time for that afterwards, when all the black fuss and bustle was over. This being a funeral in the grand tradition, it was a very lengthy affair. The assembly of the carriages and the mourners took some time. Then there was the long slow drive out to Dum Wood Cemetery, where serious Bruddersfordians go walking on fine Sunday afternoons, many a year before they are taken there to await the last trump. Then followed a service in the cemetery chapel, where the Rev. J. Hamilton Morris, B.A., of Woolgate Congregational Chapel, tried to dwell upon the virtues of the deceased and found it very difficult because he knew very little about her. He did what he could, however, looked manfully at the tear-stained or grim faces, and finally asked the grave where its victory was. And when all was done, there was the long drive back, not to 51 Ogden Street, but to Caddy‚Äôs in Shuttle Street, where a funeral tea had been ordered. Caddy‚Äôs, being old-fashioned, still made a speciality of these repasts, and on their business cards might be seen, sandwiched between Catering and Wedding Cakes the announcement: Funeral Teas. Mourners, mostly relations, still come considerable distances, and not only must they be refreshed but they must also be provided with an opportunity to exchange news, for many scattered families only meet at a funeral. It is not perhaps true to say that these teas are the most jovial functions known to elderly Bruddersfordians, but it must be admitted that they are generally a success, going with a swing that many social events in Bruddersford never know. Everybody has that pleasant feeling of having carried through a painful duty; after a sight of the open grave, it is good to return to life, to eat and drink and swap news with uncles and cousins; and, moreover, what with long rides, services, and standing about in cemeteries, to say nothing of the havoc wrought by the emotions, a mourner develops a real appetite and funeral teas are good solid meat teas. That is the reason why the comedian who plays the Dame in the Bruddersford pantomime never fails‚ÅÝ‚Äîhas not failed these last thirty years‚ÅÝ‚Äîto bring down the house with the remark: ‚ÄúI buried ‚Äôim with ‚Äôam.‚Äù On this occasion, Mrs.¬ÝBairstow had ordered Caddy‚Äôs to provide a sound specimen of their knife-and-fork tea, and they had disappointed neither her nor any of her hopeful guests.
Among those who did full justice to both the ham and the tongue was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs old friend and our old acquaintance, that independent craftsman and keeper of hens, Mr.¬ÝSam Oglethorpe. Here was one person Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could talk to, and though actually he did not do much talking, he kept close to Sam from the moment they all tramped up Caddy‚Äôs stairs.
‚ÄúWell, Jess,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô to be off. I‚Äôve getten t‚Äôhens to see to, tha knaws. Farls can‚Äôt wait if fowk can.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd disconsolately. Then he brightened up. ‚ÄúHere, Sam, I‚Äôm coming wi‚Äô yer.‚Äù
‚ÄúWon‚Äôt they want yer?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe. They had wandered away from the tables now.
“If they do, they mun want on. Ther’s nowt I can do here nar.”
‚ÄúRight, owd lad,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe cheerfully. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll get t‚Äôtram.‚Äù
They said little or nothing, either on the tram or on the walk to Wabley from the terminus, but they smoked companionably all the way, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did at least lose the feeling that he was wandering in an ugly dream. Sam might not be one of the brightest or have much to say for himself, but he was a comfortable sort of chap to be with at a time like this.
‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell yer what,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe suggested, when he had finished attending to his fowls, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll ha‚Äô a sup o‚Äô beer. Tha doesn‚Äôt want to go on to T‚ÄôAnglers? I thowt not. Well, I‚Äôll fetch a sup and we‚Äôll car quiet a bit i‚Äô t‚Äôhen-hoil. Nay, don‚Äôt you come; I‚Äôll fetch it mysen.‚Äù
This was that same combined henhouse and workshop where he had sat and talked to Sam and his nephew Ted, of the lorry, on a Sunday night that now seem years and years away. It was while he was waiting in there that he remembered the letter in his pocket. It was from Miss Trant:
Dear Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,
I was so sorry to learn that your wife was ill and that you had to go home. I do hope that by this time you have better news of her. I have some news for you. Mr.¬ÝGooch has seen this man Ridvers, and he has frightened him into agreeing to pay the claim for damages. I don‚Äôt know whether this is a very legal thing to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîit doesn‚Äôt seem like it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it is only right he should pay for his stupidity. It will cost him a good deal too, which means that I have been saved a good deal‚ÅÝ‚Äîthanks to you. Please remember this when you hear from Mr.¬ÝGooch, as you will very shortly. The other news is that Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane and I are to be married very soon. We shall live just outside Gatford for a time. I‚Äôm afraid this means that a plan I had for offering you some work at Hitherton won‚Äôt be possible now, though it was only vague. But will you please come and talk over your plans‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless you have already fixed something up for yourself? I have just had a very excited letter from Susie in London. She has begun rehearsing already and likes her part.
He read this letter through twice, very carefully. He was glad that Miss Trant would not have to pay. He was also glad that she was marrying the big doctor chap. He told himself he was glad, yet he was conscious of feeling only a vague disappointment. The letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fine letter too‚ÅÝ‚Äîought to have cheered him up, but it did not cheer him up. He was still numb, frozen, with just the tiniest bit of an ache somewhere.
There was a cosy gossiping look about Sam when he returned with his jugful. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wanted to feel like that too, but somehow he couldn‚Äôt manage it.
‚ÄúWell, Jess,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, in his usual slow, meditative Jobbing Work style, ‚Äúan‚Äô ar yer‚Äôve been finding things down South?‚Äù
‚ÄúNay,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúwe‚Äôve had a bit o‚Äô bother just lately, bit of a mix-up, you might say.‚Äù A week ago, he would have plunged at once into an account of the whole affair, but now he couldn‚Äôt, not without an effort. It all seemed such a long way off, like a tale in a book.
‚ÄúAy, I dare say,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, nodding and frowning judicially. Obviously it would not surprise him what happened down South. ‚ÄúBeen i‚Äô the‚Äëater line, haven‚Äôt yer, Jess? I did hear. An‚Äô what is there to do i‚Äô that line o‚Äô business? Be a change from Higden‚Äôs, eh? Diff‚Äôrent altogether, I‚Äôll be barnd?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted that it was, and decribed briefly what he had been doing for the past six months. If he had been describing fairyland, his hearer could not have been more astonished and delighted, but though he felt a faint warmth at this reception of his news, a reception long anticipated, often imagined, he could not really be kindled. And it was just the same when they came to talk of his travels.
‚ÄúAn‚Äô Bristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer, Jess,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, ‚Äúdid yer ivver get theer?‚Äù
“Bristol and Bedfordshire?” he repeated, puzzled.
‚ÄúNay, lad, don‚Äôt yer remember? I mind it as well as if it wor nobbut yesterda‚Äô. Yer come here, it wor t‚Äôlast time yer ivver wor here, an‚Äô yer wanted to be off somewhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîdown South‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I says ‚ÄòWell, wheer d‚Äôyer want to go,‚Äô an‚Äô yer says, ‚ÄòBristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer,‚Äô an‚Äô I laughs. An‚Äô then‚ÅÝ‚Äîby gow!‚ÅÝ‚Äîafore I can turn rahnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer‚Äôve gone. Eh, I‚Äôve had monny a good laugh ower it. I‚Äôve been dahn to Bruddersford, we‚Äôll say, an‚Äô one o‚Äô t‚Äôchaps o‚Äô the t‚Äôclub has assed ‚ÄòWhere‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd, Sam?‚Äô an‚Äô I‚Äôve towd them. ‚ÄòBristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòAr d‚Äôyer mean?‚Äô they says. ‚ÄòWell, he come here,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòan‚Äô he says to me he‚Äôd like to go to Bristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer, an‚Äô t‚Äônext minute he wor off,‚Äô I says. Don‚Äôt tell me yer nivver went, Jess.‚Äù
‚ÄúI remember,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd slowly. ‚ÄúWell, I nivver got to Bristol, Sam, though I‚Äôve nivver given it a thowt. I may ha‚Äô seen Bedfordshire, but I don‚Äôt knaw fairly. We‚Äôve been all ower t‚Äôshop, up an‚Äô down an‚Äô across, on t‚Äôroad, yer knaw. Ay, I‚Äôve seen a deal.‚Äù
‚ÄúThen yer owt to be satisfied nar, lad,‚Äù observed Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, with a suggestion of irony. ‚ÄúTell us wheer yer‚Äôve been an‚Äô what yer‚Äôve seen.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a big order, Sam,‚Äù he began doubtfully. ‚ÄúWhen yer‚Äôve been about, a bit, places‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe stopped him at once. He looked very reproachful, though waggish. ‚ÄúNar, Jess,‚Äù he cautioned, ‚Äúyer not goin‚Äô to tell me ‚Äôat places is all alike when yer come to know ‚Äôem.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, summat o‚Äô t‚Äôsort,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd muttered.
His friend instantly banged the table. “Them’s t’words, very words, ’at our Ted used i’ this very place that Sunda’,” he roared. “Very words he said. An’ yer said ‘Nay, I’ll be damned if I’ll ha’ that.’ And I backed yer up. Our Ted wor only talking abart it t’other week here, when he wor wondering where yer’d got to. Well, well, well! That caps t’lot. We live an’ we learn, we live an’ we learn. Nay, Jess!”
‚ÄúHowd thi noise, Sam!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested good-humouredly. But he looked, and felt, confused. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mean all places is alike. Your Ted wor wrong. He went too far, too far bi half, he did. What I think is this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Nay, Jess, leave it, lad, leave it nar. Say ner more. Here, have another sup o’ beer. Bit better ner like, this beer. If they don’t look aht, they’ll be puttin’ some malt an’ hops in it agen, same as they used to, instead o’ just colourin’ t’reservoy watter an’ fillin’ t’barrels wi’ that. Well, what’s t’next job then, lad? Still in t’the‑ater line?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not know, and he hardly seemed to care. He had asked himself this question several times, but somehow had found it quite easy to leave it unanswered. It was as if something inside him had just snapped. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt knaw,‚Äù he replied, blowing out his breath in what was recognized to be the Bruddersfordian equivalent of a sigh. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt, Sam. There was a bit o‚Äô talk about me gettin‚Äô summat else i‚Äô t‚Äôsame line, but I don‚Äôt knaw what‚Äôll come of it. I haven‚Äôt thowt about it. I suppose I mun be looking round.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe nodded sagely. Then he looked very grave. ‚ÄúKeep aht o‚Äô t‚ÄôJoinery an‚Äô Jobbing i‚Äô this neighbourhood, Jess, that‚Äôs all. Way things is nar, it‚Äôs nowt‚ÅÝ‚Äînowt at all, it isn‚Äôt. It‚Äôs just like t‚Äôhens scrattin‚Äô for a bit o‚Äô summat.‚Äù
‚ÄúIs it war ner it wor?‚Äù inquired Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúNay, trade‚Äôs so bad and ther‚Äôs so monny either stopped or on short time, they‚Äôll ha‚Äô nowt done, d‚Äôyer see, Jess? They‚Äôd let t‚Äôplaces go to rack an‚Äô ruin afore they‚Äôd have owt done. Sitha, I can‚Äôt put me nose in onnywheer withart seeing hawf-a-dozen little jobs ‚Äôat wants doing. But fowk hasn‚Äôt bit o‚Äô brass to spare. They can‚Äôt thoil it, lad. I‚Äôve nearly made as mich aht o‚Äô t‚Äôhens. I‚Äôve been keepin‚Äô farls nar for fowerteen year, an‚Äô I shan‚Äôt be capped if at finish t‚Äôfarls is keepin‚Äô me. So don‚Äôt set up for thysen on t‚ÄôJoinery an‚Äô Jobbing i‚Äô these parts, Jess. Might be different dahn South, I dare say, but here‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs nowt. Keep to t‚Äôthe‚Äëater line, I say, ‚Äôcos fowk seems to ha‚Äô brass to spend on the‚Äëaters an‚Äô t‚Äôanimated picters an‚Äô suchlike these days when they haven‚Äôt a sixpence for owt beside. Has ta ‚Äôad onny young actresses i‚Äô tow, Jess?‚Äù
‚ÄúNay, Sam, who d‚Äôyer think I am?‚Äù But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was not shocked. He had replied almost mechanically.
It occurred to Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe then that this was hardly the time for such badinage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe clay of Dum Wood Cemetery being hardly dry on their boots yet‚ÅÝ‚Äîand hastily and awkwardly he changed the subject. But he could not change his friend‚Äôs heavy and abstracted mood, and soon their talk dwindled to nothing; Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned home accompanied by a dark confusion of thoughts and memories, in which his adventures on the road, all the ups and downs of the Good Companions, had their place. Yet they were only like shadows flickering on a wall. He wanted to see them all again, these Good Companions; he could dwell affectionately on his thought of them; but nevertheless they were little figures, far away, and he realized, in his own dumb obscure fashion, that it was not they who had the power to wake him back to life. Nor was it anybody or anything in Bruddersford. He walked slowly through the familiar streets, a shrunken figure in an ill-fitting suit of black, solitary beneath the street lamps that only intensified the great dark above, a man alone. No, not entirely alone, for keeping step with him were immense vague shapes, so many configurations of mystery, pain, and death.
‚ÄúThen we mun sell t‚Äôhome up,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, early the next morning. He was looking disconsolately across the table at Leonard, who had just announced that he had decided to take the job he had been offered in Manchester.
“No good keepin’ it if you’re not going to stop in Bruddersford,” said Leonard.
“Well, I’m not,” his father remarked quietly.
“What are you going to do?”
‚ÄúWait a bit, lad, wait a bit. I‚Äôll see.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was rather irritable now. ‚ÄúWe can‚Äôt all be barbers wi‚Äô jobs i‚Äô Manchester round t‚Äôcorner, can we?‚Äù
“I was only askin’,” said Leonard, a sulky boy again.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, lad. Tak‚Äô no notice. I‚Äôm glad you can look after yersen. Yer doin‚Äô right well, Leonard, an‚Äô if you‚Äôd nobbut settle a bit an‚Äô not go malackin‚Äô abart so much wi‚Äô t‚Äôgirls‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I’ve ’ad enough of that,” said Leonard, who believed at the moment that he had.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, then. You‚Äôll do champion,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, regarding his son for once with something like approval. ‚ÄúWell, we‚Äôll ha‚Äô to sell up. Ar‚Äôs it‚Äôs got to be done, that‚Äôs t‚Äôpoint? We‚Äôre havin‚Äô no auctionin‚Äô.‚Äù
“Wouldn’t be worth it anyway,” said Leonard, with a glance round the room. “Not enough stuff here.”
‚ÄúBy gow!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe live an‚Äô learn. I thowt once upon a time I‚Äôd getten a good home together,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with some bitterness, ‚Äúbut seemingly it‚Äôs not worth sellin‚Äô up nar.‚Äù
“Best thing we can do,” said Leonard, wisely disregarding this outburst, “is to get one or two of these secondhand-furniture chaps in, and they’ll offer a price. Albert’ll tell me who’s the best. I’ll go and see him this morning if you like.”
‚ÄúAll right.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked about him now. ‚ÄúI wonder if ther‚Äôs owt our Lily ‚Äôud like for hersen,‚Äù he mused.
“Dare say there might.” Leonard lit a cigarette. “But she’ll have a better place of her own now. Jack Clough gets good money out there.”
“I’ll look abart a bit. Then if ther’s owt I think she could do wi’, I’ll pack it up in a box.” He suddenly remembered something. “Eh, whativver I do. I’ll ha’ to go back to Gatford! I left my tools.”
Leonard stared at him. “Gor, you made me jump, Par! Is that all? Tools!”
‚ÄúAy, tools, lad, tools! It‚Äôs enough an‚Äô all. I‚Äôm a tradesman, I am, an‚Äô I can‚Äôt set mysen up wi‚Äô a pair o‚Äô scissors an a pair o‚Äô clippers an‚Äô a drop o‚Äô hair-oil. I want summat to work wi‚Äô when I start. An‚Äô I been using some o‚Äô them tools for twenty year, an‚Äô don‚Äôt you forget it. I wouldn‚Äôt be wi‚Äôout ‚Äôem for owt. I‚Äôm a tradesman, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô if you ask me, ther‚Äôs noan so damn monny on us left.‚Äù
“Can you wonder,” said Leonard, with all the scorn of a younger and wiser generation, “wages they pay?”
‚ÄúHappen not,‚Äù said his father gloomily. ‚ÄúFor all that, a chap ‚Äôat‚Äôs learnt his trade an‚Äô can use his hands‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe isn‚Äôt a machine an‚Äô he isn‚Äôt a flippin‚Äô monkey‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a man, lad, wages or no wages, a man.‚Äù And he gave the table a bang. It was immediately answered by another, at the door. ‚ÄúHello, who‚Äôs this?‚Äù
“Postman. I’ll go.” And when Leonard came back, he added: “One for me and one for you.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had been told by Miss Trant that he would hear from Mr.¬ÝGooch of Gatford, but nevertheless he was astonished. He was even more astonished when the following little bombshell had exploded under his nose:
Dear Sir,
Following the instructions of our client, Miss E. Trant, upon the satisfactory termination of our negotiations with Mr.¬ÝRidvers, we have pleasure in handing you herewith our cheque, on behalf of Miss Trant, for ¬£100 (one hundred pounds) receipt of which kindly acknowledge to us as well as to Miss Trant herself.
And there it was, with the letter, a little bit of blue and white paper: Pay Mr.¬ÝJ. Oakroyd or Order. A hundred pounds. Nay!
“Here,” he shouted to Leonard, “I’ve getten a hundred pounds. Eh, it’s aht o’ all reason. A hundred pound! That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Well I’ll be blowed! What you got that for, Par? Let’s have a look at it. That’s right. It’s a cheque, that is. But what you got it for?”
‚ÄúWell, I did a bit o‚Äô puttin‚Äô two an‚Äô two together for this Miss Trant I been workin‚Äô for. Must ha‚Äô saved a good deal, I dare say, but this is aht o‚Äô all reason. Nay‚ÅÝ‚Äîa hundred pound!‚Äù
“Depends what you did, doesn’t it?” said Leonard, looking very knowing.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd explained briefly what he had done.
‚ÄúWell, that‚Äôs it then,‚Äù said Leonard. ‚ÄúYou might have saved her a right lot‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôspect you did‚ÅÝ‚Äîwish I had it.‚Äù He inspected the cheque again. ‚ÄúI know a bit about these things. You can‚Äôt cash this, y‚Äôknow, Par, ‚Äôcos it‚Äôs got Company written on. You‚Äôll have to pay it into t‚Äôbank.‚Äù
“What bank? Haven’t got a bank, though I once had a bit in t’Post Office. An’ I’d some trade on gettin’ owt aht on ’em an’ all.”
‚ÄúYou goes to bank with this, and you pays it in,‚Äù Leonard explained, proud of his knowledge of high finance, ‚Äúand then if you want it‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney, y‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou take it out again. That‚Äôs way you do it.‚Äù
‚ÄúPut it in an‚Äô tak it aht,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, puzzled. ‚ÄúI call that daft. Still, if that‚Äôs t‚Äôway, I‚Äôll do it. An‚Äô I mun do some o‚Äô this kindly acknowledgin‚Äô too. Eh, but‚ÅÝ‚Äîa hundred pound!‚Äù And he stared at his son in bewilderment.
“Come in handy, that little lot,” said Leonard, who was now slipping into the part of the knowing young man. “That and what you’ll get from selling up here, it’ll give you a good old start all right.”
‚ÄúNay, I can‚Äôt keep all I get from selling t‚Äôhome up,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested. ‚ÄúYou mun have half, Leonard. We might get summat for our Lily an‚Äô all. Onny road, we‚Äôll divide an‚Äô make a divvy on it.‚Äù
“Our Lily won’t want anything. She’s well off, she is. And I don’t,” added Leonard, who, to give him his due, was not a grasping youth. “Keep it yourself, Par. What there is, is yours all right. But we shan’t get much, I can tell you now. I’ll go and ask Albert.”
As soon as he was left alone, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began rummaging about to see if there was anything that Lily might like. He wandered upstairs, spending quite a time there, looking not at little old possessions but at the very past itself, so that times, seasons, occasions, events, he had almost entirely forgotten returned all clear and bright but very small, part of a melancholy enchantment.
A slight noise from downstairs called him into the immediate present again. He descended quietly, to discover in the living-room, just by the old sofa, what looked like a hillock of dirty blue serge. The next moment it turned itself into Mrs.¬ÝSugden rising from her knees, panting, purple-faced, and a trifle confused.
‚ÄúMornin‚Äô, Mrs.¬ÝSugden,‚Äù he said, rather dryly, ‚ÄúI couldn‚Äôt think what it wor.‚Äù
‚ÄúEh, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, I ‚Äôope yer don‚Äôt mind,‚Äù she cried, puffing and blowing. ‚ÄúI looked in to see if there was owt I could do for yer, an‚Äô your Leonard towed me as he was passin‚Äô yer were sellin‚Äô up an‚Äô I were just ‚Äôaving a look at t‚Äôsofa. I‚Äôve been wantin‚Äô one for some time an‚Äô I thowt I might as well ‚Äôave it, if it‚Äôs goin‚Äô, just as well as t‚Äônext.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù he said, wagging his head at her in a kind of half-mournful, half-humorous resignation. ‚ÄúSo you might, Mrs.¬ÝSugden. Tak‚Äô a look while you‚Äôve a chance. Here today and gone tomorrow, that‚Äôs our motto.‚Äù And he left her to it, but now, when he looked round upstairs, there was only so much furniture and odds and ends all worse for wear, just old junk. He had to comfort himself with a pipe of Old Salt.
And then it happened.
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝOakroyd, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù she was screaming up the stairs, ‚Äúthere‚Äôs summat come for yer.‚Äù And when he hurried down, she added, holding something out to him: ‚ÄúLooks like a sort o‚Äô telegram.‚Äù
It was a cable. Trembling, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd put his pipe down on the table, and even then only opened the envelope with difficulty. He stared, breathing hard. Very grieved all love if you come out here very welcome and good job any time Lily Jack. Again and again he read it, making sure. And then it was as if a huge door had been opened and the sunlight was flooding in, warming him to life again.
‚ÄúAn‚Äô will yer go?‚Äù asked Mrs.¬ÝSugden, when at last he had satisfied her curiosity. ‚ÄúEh, it‚Äôs a long way off.‚Äù
‚ÄúLong way! Long nowt! If it were from here to t‚Äômoon I‚Äôd go‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
And Mrs.¬ÝSugden, hearing the terrible voice of love triumphant, was silenced. No doubt she knew that when this voice peals out, all other voices in the universe are nothing but reedy whispers, better silent. Perhaps she acquired the sofa as a reward for recognizing these authentic tones.
Another person heard them that morning. This was the young man at Torry’s Shipping Agency in Shuttle Street. He looked up from his book to see a detestable, cheap, black suit, a mouth that was in earnest, and two blue eyes that blazed with excitement.
“Nar, lad,” said this caller, in the usual and regrettable Bruddersford manner, “just tell me how I can get to Canada.”
The young man put away his book and took out a pencil. This sounded like business. “Assisted passage, I suppose?”
“Ar d’you mean?”
The young man began to explain about emigration and government grants and forms to fill in, but he was quickly cut short.
‚ÄúNowt o‚Äô that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúTher‚Äôs no government i‚Äô this. I‚Äôm payin‚Äô for mysen. I can manage third class nicely.‚Äù
“Then that’s different,” said the young man, who now began to talk about the various routes and steamship lines. “Of course it depends on where you want to go at the other end. But we might begin with this end first. You could go from either Liverpool or Southampton.”
‚ÄúChampion!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
“Yes, either Liverpool or Southampton.”
‚ÄúGood enough!‚Äù Then, after some thought, he went on: ‚ÄúNar I fancy Southampton, an‚Äô I‚Äôll tell yer for why. I‚Äôd like to call at a place i‚Äô t‚ÄôMidlands‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGatford‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô then I‚Äôd like to go to London on t‚Äôway, ‚Äôcos ther‚Äôs some friends o‚Äô mine there ‚Äôat I‚Äôd like to see afore I go. So we‚Äôll mak‚Äô it Southampton, lad.‚Äù
“Good! Southampton.” And the young man flourished his pencil. “What part of Canada are you going to? We could probably arrange to book you right through.”
‚ÄúYer a smart young feller, I can see,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in great delight. ‚ÄúJust get your map aht an‚Äô I‚Äôll show yer where I want to go. It‚Äôs where my dowter lives an‚Äô I can put me finger on t‚Äôvery place. Yer knaw abaht Canada, do yer? Ay, well, you an‚Äô me‚Äôull mak‚Äô a right good job on it.‚Äù
For the next hour that young man of Tony’s never returned to his book. On the other hand, he did not miss it. Life had walked into the shop.
V
It is Saturday afternoon again, and once more something queer is happening in that narrow thoroughfare to the west of the town, Manchester Road. A grey-green tide flows sluggishly down the road a tide of cloth caps, leaving the ground of ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited,‚Äù where Huddersfield have just been defeated by three goals to two. Somewhere in the middle of this thick stream of cloth caps is one that looks newer than most of its neighbours. It belongs to Mr.¬ÝJesiah Oakroyd, who has contrived to attend this match before leaving Bruddersford for years, perhaps forever. He is catching a train to Gatford, his first little halt on his long journey, this very evening, and already his suitcase and his big tin trunk are at the station, waiting for the 6:50. Casual talk is easy in such a slowly moving throng and is favoured because it helps to pass the time even when it does not also relieve the feelings. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd is engaged in it. We can just overhear a sentence or two.
“Ay,” his neighbour observes, “if they’d nobbut laked like this all t’season they’d ha’ been somewhere at the top instead of being nearly at bottom. They’re just wak’ning up nar it’s nearly over.”
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs been a grand match today, it has,‚Äù says Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dreamily. ‚ÄúI nivver want to see a better. Eh, it were t‚Äôowd form all ower agen. Them last two goals‚ÅÝ‚Äînay, by gow!‚Äù
“Ay, them wor a bit of all right.”
“All right! They wor grand!”
And then we hear no more. The tide of caps and men flows on, slowly but gradually gathering speed, like our years. It recedes, shrinks, until at last you do not notice it at all. Manchester Road is now only one of a hundred thoroughfares, for Bruddersford itself, the whole spread of it, has come into view. Holdsworth’s giant mill looms there on the left; the Midland Railway’s station glitters in the sun again, and there is an answering gleam from the glass roof of the Market Hall; a silver streak shows one of the canals; and in the centre of the tall chimneys, shaking the air with its “Lass of Richmond Hill,” is the tower of the Bruddersford Town Hall. It points a finger at us, and then is gone, lost in a faint smudge of smoke. Another moment and Bruddersford is only a grimy crack in the hills. The high moorland between Yorkshire and Lancashire rises steadily, clear in the pearly light of Spring. Once more, the miles and miles of ling and bog and black rock, and the curlews crying above the scattered jewellery of the little tarns. There are the Derbyshire hills, and there, away to the north, are the great fells of Cumberland, and now the whole darkening length of it, from the Peak to Cross Fell, is visible, for this is the Pennine Range, sometimes called the backbone of England.