‘That’s all very well, but I tell you he has no right to lock us out; he’s a licensed hotel-keeper. Are you game, Mortimer? We pan burst in the door with our shoulders.’
‘Game!’ said Mortimer, in a nasal note that echoed down the courtyard; ‘partridges are in season in September. Here goes!’ and taking a run, he jumped with his full weight against the door.
‘Out of the way,’ cried Dick, breaking away from Kate, and hurling his huge frame a little closer to the lock than the comedian had done.
The excitement being now at boiling pitch, the work was begun in real earnest, and as they darted in regular succession out of the shadow of the buttress across the clear stream of moonlight flowing down the flagstones, they appeared like a procession of figures thrown on a cloth by a magic-lantern. Mr. Hayes’ white stocking served for a line, and bump, bump, they went against the door. Each effort was watched with different degrees of interest by the ladies. When little Dubois toddled forward, and sprang with what little impetus his short legs could give him, it was difficult not to laugh, and when Montgomery’s reed-like shanks were seen passing, Kate clung to Miss Leslie in fear that he would crush his frail body against the door; but when it came to the turn of any of the big ones, the excitement was great. Mortimer and Bret were watched eagerly, but most faith was placed in Dick, not only for his greater weight, but for his superior and more plucky way of jumping. Springing from the very middle of the passage, his head back and his shoulder forward, he went like a thunderbolt against the door. It seemed wonderful that he did not bring down the wall as well as the woodwork, and a round of applause rewarded each effort. Hayes, who fancied himself in bed, and that the waiter was calling him at some strange hour in the morning, shouted occasionally the most fearful of curses from his dark corner. The noise was terrific, and the clapping of hands, shrieks of laughter, and cries of encouragement reverberated through the echoing passage and the silent moonlight.
At last Dick’s turn came again, and enraged by past failures, he put forth his whole strength and jumped from the white stocking with his full weight against the door. It gave way with a crash, and at that moment the proprietor appeared, holding a candle in his hand.
Everybody made a rush, and picking up Dick, who was not in the least hurt, they struck matches on the wall and groped their way up to their rooms, heedless of the denunciations of the enraged proprietor, who declared that he would take an action against them all. In his dressing-gown, and by the light of his candle, he surveyed his dismantled threshold, thinking how he might fasten up his house for the night. The first object he caught sight of was Mr. Hayes’ white stocking. As he did so a wicked light gleamed in his eyes, and after a few efforts to awake the drunkard he walked to the gateway and looked up and down the street to see if a policeman were in sight. In real truth he was doubtful as to his rights to lock visitors out of their hotel, and, did not feel disposed to discuss the question before a magistrate. But what could be said against him for requesting the removal of a drunken man? He did not know who he was, nor was he bound to find out. So argued the proprietor of the Hen and Chickens, and Mr. Hayes, still protesting he did not want to be called before ten, was dragged off to the station.
Next morning the hotel-keeper denied knowing anything whatever about the matter. It was true he had called the policeman’s attention to the fact that there was a man asleep under the archway, but he did not know that the man was Mr. Hayes. This story was rejected by the company, and vowing that they would never again go within a mile of his shop, they all went to see poor Hayes pulled out before the beak. It was a forty-shilling affair or the option of a week, and in revenge, Dick invited last night’s party to dinner at a restaurant. They weren’t going to put their money into the pocket of that cad of an inn-keeper. Hayes was the hero of the hour, and he made everybody roar with laughter at the way in which he related his experiences. But after a time Dick, who had always an eye to business, drew his chair up to Mortimer’s, and begged of him to try to think of some allusions to the adventures which could be worked into the piece. The question was a serious one, and until it was time to go to the theatre the art of gagging was warmly argued. Dubois held the most liberal views. He said that after a certain number of nights the author’s words should be totally disregarded in favour of topical remarks. Bret, who was slow of wit, maintained that the dignity of a piece could only be maintained by sticking to the text, and cited examples to support his opinion. It was, however, finally agreed that whenever Mortimer came on the stage, he should say, ‘Derby isn’t a safe place to get drunk in,’ and that Dubois should reply, ‘Rather not.’
Owing to these little emendations, the piece went with a scream, the receipts were over a hundred, and Morton and Cox’s Operatic Company, having done a very satisfactory week’s business, assembled at the station on Sunday morning bound for Blackpool.
Kate and Dick jumped into a compartment with the same people as before, plus a chorus-girl who was making up to Montgomery in the hopes of being allowed to say on the entrance of the duke, ‘Oh, what a jolly fellow he is!’ Mortimer shouted to Hayes, who always went with the pipe-smokers, and Dick spoke about the possibility of producing some new piece at Liverpool. Dubois, Mortimer, Bret, and the chorus-girl settled down to a game of nap. Dick, Leslie, and Montgomery were singing tunes or fragments of tunes to each other, and talking about ‘effects’ that might be introduced into the new piece. But would Dick produce a new piece?
The conversation changed, and it was asked if no money could be saved this trip in the taking of the tickets, and Dick was closely questioned as to when, in his opinion, it would be safe to try their little plant on again. Instead of answering he leant back, and gradually a pleasant smile began to trickle over his broad face. He was evidently maturing some plan. ‘What is it, Dick? Do say like a good fellow,’ was repeated many times, but he refused to give any reply. This aroused the curiosity of the company, and it grew to burning pitch when the train drew up at a station and Dick began a conversation with the guard concerning the length of time they would have at Preston, and where they would find the train that was to take them on to Blackpool.
‘You’ll have a quarter of an hour’s wait at Preston. You’ll arrive there at 4.20 and at thirty-five past you’ll find the train for Blackpool drawn up on the right-hand side of the station.’
‘Thanks very much,’ replied Dick as he tipped the guard; and then, turning his head towards his friends, he whispered, ‘It’s as right as a trivet; I shall be back in a minute.’
‘Where’s he off to?’ asked everybody.
‘He’s just gone into the telegraph office,’ said Montgomery, who was stationed at the window.
A moment after Dick was seen running up the platform, his big hat giving him the appearance of an American. As he passed each compartment of their carriage he whispered something in at the window.
‘What can he be saying? What can he be arranging?’ asked Miss Leslie.
‘I don’t care how he arranges it as long as I get a drink on the cheap at Preston,’ said Mortimer.
‘That’s the main point,’ replied Dubois.
‘Well, Dick, what is it?’ exclaimed everybody, as the big man sat down beside Kate.
‘The moment the train arrives at Preston we must all make a rush for the refreshment-rooms and ask for Mr. Simpson’s lunch.’
‘Who’s Mr. Simpson? What lunch? Oh, do tell us! What a mysterious fellow you are!’ were the exclamations reiterated all the way along the route. But the only answer they received was, ‘Now what does it matter who Mr. Simpson is? Eat and drink all you can, and for the life of you don’t ask who Mr. Simpson is, but only for his lunch.’
And as soon as the train stopped actors, actresses, chorus-girls and men, conductor, prompter, manager, and baggage-man rushed like a school towards the glass doors of the refreshment-room, where they found a handsome collation laid out for forty people.
‘Where’s Mr. Simpson’s lunch?’ shouted Dick.
‘Here, sir, here; all is ready,’ replied two obliging waiters.
‘Where’s Mr. Simpson’s lunch?’ echoed Dubois and Montgomery.
‘This way, sir; what will you take, sir? Cold beef, chicken and ham, or a little soup?’ asked half a dozen waiters.
The ladies were at first shy of helping themselves, and hung back a little, but Dick drove them on, and, the first step taken, they ate of everything. But Kate clung to Dick timidly, refusing all offers of chicken, ham, and cold beef.
‘But is this paid for?’ she whispered to him.
‘Of course it is. Mr. Simpson’s lunch. Take care of what you’re sayin’. Tuck into this plate of chicken; will you have a bit of tongue with it?’ and not having the courage to refuse, Kate complied in silence. Dick crammed her pockets with cakes. But soon the waiters began to wonder at the absence of Mr. Simpson, and had already commenced their inquiries.
Approaching Mortimer, the head waiter asked that gentleman if Mr. Simpson was in the room.
‘He’s just slipped round to the bookstall to get a Sunday paper. He’ll be back in a minute, and if you’ll get me another bit of chicken in the meantime I shall feet obliged.’
In five minutes more the table was cleared, and everybody made a movement to retire, and it was then that the refreshment-room people began to exhibit a very genuine interest in the person of Mr. Simpson. One waiter begged of Dick to describe the gentleman to him, another besought of Dubois to say at what end of the table Mr. Simpson had had his lunch. In turn they appealed to the ladies and to the gentlemen, but were always met with the same answer. ‘Just saw him a minute ago, going up to the station; if you run after him you’re sure to catch him.’ ‘Mr. Simpson? Why, he was here a minute ago; I think he was speaking about sending a telegram; perhaps he’s up in the office.’ The train bell then rang, and, like a herd in motion, the whole company crowded to the train. The guard shouted, the panic-stricken waiters tumbled over the luggage, and, running from carriage to carriage, begged to be informed as to Mr. Simpson’s whereabouts.
‘He’s in the end carriage, I tell you, back there, just at the other end of the train.’
The seedy black coats were then seen hurrying down the flags, but only to return in a minute, breathless, for further information. But this could not last for ever, and the guard blew his whistle, the actors began gagging. And, oh, the singing, the whistling, the cheers of the mummers as the train rolled away into the country, now all agleam with the sunset! Tattoos were beaten with sticks against the woodwork of each compartment. Dick, with his body half out of the window and his curls blowing in the wind, yelled at Hayes. Montgomery disputed with Dubois for possession of the other window, and three chorus-girls giggled and, munching stolen cakes, tried to get into conversation with Kate. But though love had compensated her for virtue, nothing could make amends to her for her loss of honesty. She could break a moral law with less suffering than might be expected from her bringing up, but the sentiment the most characteristic, and naturally so, of the middle classes is a respect for the property of others; and she had eaten of stolen bread. Oppressed and sickened by this idea, she shrank back in her corner, and filled with a sordid loathing of herself, she moved instinctively away from Dick.
At Blackpool Mr. Williams’s pimply face was the first thing that greeted them. There was the usual crowd of landladies who presented their cards and extolled the comfort and cleanliness of their rooms. One of these women was introduced and specially recommended by Mr. Williams. He declared that her place was a little paradise, and an hour later, still plunged in conscientious regrets at having eaten a luncheon that had not been paid for, Kate sat sipping her tea in a rose-coloured room.
XIII
But next morning at Blackpool Kate woke up languid, and seeing Dick fast asleep, she thought it would be a pity to awaken him, and twisting her pretty legs out of bed, she went into the sitting-room, with the intention of looking after Dick’s breakfast, and found it laid out on the round table in the rose-coloured sitting-room, the napery of exceeding whiteness. The two armchairs drawn by the quietly burning fire inspired indolence, and tempted at once by the freshness of her dressing-gown and the warmth of the room, she fell into a sort of happy reverie, from which she awoke in a few minutes prompted by a desire to see Dick; to see him asleep; to awaken him; to talk to him; to upbraid him for his laziness. The room, full of the intimacy of their life, enchanted her, and half in shame, half in delight, she affected to arrange the pillows while he buttoned his collar. When this was accomplished she led him triumphantly to the breakfast table, and with one arm resting on his knees watched the white shapes of the eggs seen through the bubbling water. This was the great business of the morning. He would pay twopence apiece to have fresh eggs, and was most particular that they should be boiled for three minutes, and not one second more. The landlady brought up the beefsteak and the hot milk for the coffee, and if any friend came in orders were sent down instantly for more food. Such extravagance could not fail to astonish Kate, accustomed as she had been from her earliest years to a strict and austere mode of life. Frequently she begged of Dick to be more economical, but having always lived Bohemian-like on the money easily gained, he paid very little attention to what she said, beyond advising her to eat more steak and put colour into her cheeks. And once the ice of habit was broken, she likewise began to abandon herself thoroughly to the pleasures of these rich warm breakfasts, and to look forward to the idle hours of digestion which followed, and the happy dreams that could then be indulged in. Before the tea-things were removed Dick opened the morning paper, and from time to time read aloud scraps of whatever news he thought interesting. These generally concerned the latest pieces produced in London; and, as if ignorant of the fact that she knew nothing of what he was speaking of, he explained to her his views on the subject–why such and such plays would, and others would not, do for the country. Kate listened with riveted attention, although she only understood half of what was told her, and the flattery of being taken into his confidence was a soft and fluttering joy. In these moments all fear that he would one day desert her died away like an ugly wind; and, with the noise of the town drumming dimly in the distance, they abandoned themselves to the pleasure of thinking of each other. Dick congratulated himself on the choice he had made, and assured himself that he would never know again the ennui of living alone. She was one of the prettiest women you could see anywhere, and, luckily, not too exacting. In fact, she hadn’t a fault if it weren’t that she was a bit cold, and he couldn’t understand how it was; women were not generally cold with him. The question interested him profoundly, and as he considered it his glance wandered from the loose blue masses of hair to the white satin shoe which she held to the red blaze.
‘Dick, do you think you’ll always love me as you do now?’
‘I’m sure of it, dear.’
‘It seems to me, if one really loves once one must love always. But I don’t know how I can talk to you like this, for how can you respect me? I’ve been so very wicked.’
‘What nonsense, Kate! How can you talk like that? I wouldn’t respect you if you went on living with a man you didn’t care about.’
‘Well, I liked him well enough till you came, dear, but I couldn’t then–it wasn’t all my fault; but if you should cease to care for me I think I should die. But you won’t; tell me that you won’t, dear Dick.’
At that moment the door opened; it was Montgomery come to see them. Kate jumped off Dick’s knees, and, settling her skirts with the pretty movement of a surprised woman, threw herself into a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. The musician had come to speak about his opera, especially the opening chorus, about which he could not make up his mind.
‘My boy,’ said Dick, ‘don’t be afraid of making it too long. There’s nothing like having a good strong number to begin with–something with grip in it, you know.’
Montgomery looked vaguely into space; he was obviously not listening, but was trying to follow out some musical scheme that was running in his head. After a long silence he said:
‘What I can’t make up my mind about is whether I ought to concert that first number or have it sung in unison. Now listen. The scene is the wedding festivities of Prince Florimel, who is about to wed Eva, the daughter of the Duke of Perhapsburg–devilish good name, you know. Well then, the flower-girls come on first, scattering flowers; they proceed two by two and arrange themselves in line on both sides of the stage. They are followed by trumpeters and a herald; then come the ladies-in-waiting, the pages, the courtiers, and the palace servants. Very well; the first four lines, you know–“Hail! hail! the festive day”–that, of course, is sung by the sopranos.’
‘You surely don’t want to concert that, do you?’ interrupted Dick.
‘Of course not; you must think me an ignoramus. The first four lines are sung naturally in unison; then there is a repeat, in which the tenors and basses are singing against the women’s voices. By that time the stage will be full. Well, then, what I’m thinking of doing, when I get to the second part, you know–“May the stars much pleasure send you, may romance and love attend you,” is to repeat “May the stars.”‘
‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ said Dick, who began to grow interested. You’ll give ‘May the stars’ first to the sopranos, and then repeat with the tenors and basses?’
‘That’s it. I’ll show you,’ replied Montgomery, rushing to the piano. ‘Here are the sopranos singing in G, “May the stars”; tenors, “May the stars”; tenors and sopranos, “Much pleasure send you”; basses an octave lower, “May the stars–may stars.” Now I’m going to join them together–“May the Stars.”‘
Twisting round rapidly on the piano-stool, Montgomery pushed his glasses high up on his beak-like nose, and demanded an opinion. But before Dick could say a word a kick of the long legs brought the musician again face to the keyboard, and for several minutes he crashed away, occasionally shouting forth an explanatory remark, or muttering an apology when he failed to reach the high soprano notes. The lovesong, however, was too much for him, and, laughing at his own breakdown, he turned from the piano and consented to resume the interrupted conversation. Then the plot and musical setting of Montgomery’s new work was discussed. The names of Offenbach and Herve were mentioned; both were admitted to be geniuses, but the latter, it was declared, would have been the greater had he had the advantage of a musical education. Various anecdotes were related as to how the latter had achieved his first successes, and Montgomery, who questioned the possibility of a man who could not write down the notes being able to compose the whole score of an opera, maintained it was ridiculous to talk of dictating a finale.
Kate often asked herself if she would ever be able to take part in these artistic discussions; she was afraid not. Even when she succeeded in picking up the thread of an idea, it soon got tangled with another, and she began to fear she would never know why Herve was a better composer than Offenbach, and why a certain quintette was written on classical lines and such-like. She asked Montgomery to explain things to her, but he was more anxious to speak of his own music, and when the names of the ladies of the company were being run over in search of one who could take the part of a page, with a song and twenty lines of dialogue to speak, Dick said
‘Well, perhaps it isn’t for me to say it, but I assure you that I don’t know a nicer soprano voice than Mrs Ede’s.’
‘Ho, ho!’ cried Montgomery, twisting his legs over the arm of the chair, ‘how is it I never heard of this before? But won’t you sing something, Mrs. Ede? If you have any of your songs here I’ll try the accompaniment over.’
Kate, who did not know a crotchet from a semiquaver, grew frightened at this talk of trying over accompaniments, and tried to stammer out some apologies and excuses.
‘Oh, really, Mr. Montgomery, I assure you Dick is only joking. I don’t sing at all–I don’t know anything about music.’
‘Don’t you mind her; ’tis as I say: she’s got a very nice soprano voice; and as for an ear, I never knew a better in my life. There’s no singing flat there, I can tell you. But, seriously speaking,’ he continued, taking pity on Kate, whose face expressed the agony of shame she was suffering, ‘of course I know well enough she don’t know how to produce her voice; she never had a lesson in her life, but I think you’ll agree with me, when you hear it, that the organ is there. Do sing something, Kate.’
Kate cast a beseeching glance at her lover, and murmured some unintelligible words, but they did not save her. Montgomery crossed himself over the stool, and, after running his fingers over the keys, said:
‘Now, sing the scale after me–do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, la–that’s the note; try to get that clear–sol, do!’ and Kate, not liking to disoblige Dick, sang the scale after Montgomery in the first instance, and then, encouraged by her success, gave it by herself, first in one octave and then in the other. ‘Well, don’t you agree with me?’ said Dick. ‘The organ is there, and there’s no fluffing the notes; they come out clear, don’t they?’
‘They do indeed,’ replied Montgomery, casting a warm glance of admiration at Kate; ‘but I should so much like to hear Mrs. Ede sing a song.’
‘Oh, I really couldn’t–‘
‘Nonsense! Sing the song of “The Bells” in the _Cloches_,’ said Dick, taking her by the arm. She pleaded and argued, but it was no use, and when at last it was decided she was to sing, Montgomery, who had in the meantime been trying the finale of his first act in several different ways, stopped short and said suddenly:
‘Oh, I beg your pardon; you’re going to sing the song of “The Bells.” I’ll tell you when to begin–now, “Though they often tell us of our ancient masters.”‘
When Kate had finished singing Montgomery spun round, bringing himself face to face with Dick, and speaking professionally, said:
”Pon my word, it’s extraordinary. Of course it is a head voice, but as soon as we get a few chest notes–you know I don’t pretend to be able to teach singing, but after a year’s training under my grandfather Beaumont wouldn’t be in the same street with you.’
‘Yes, but as he isn’t here,’ replied Dick, who always kept an eye on the possible, ‘don’t you think it would be as well for her to learn a little music?’
‘I shall be only too delighted to teach Mrs. Ede the little I know myself. I’ll come in the morning, and we’ll work away at the piano; and you know,’ continued Montgomery, who began to regret the confession of his inability to teach singing, ‘although I don’t pretend to be able to do what my grandfather could with a voice, still, I know something about it. I used to attend all his singing-classes, and am pretty well up in his method, and–and–if Mrs. Ede likes, I shall be only too happy to do some singing with her; and, between you and me, I think that in a few lessons I could get rid of that throatiness, and show her how to get a note or two from the chest.’
‘I’m sure you could, my boy; and I shall be delighted with you if you will. Of course we must consider it as a matter of business.’
‘Oh, nonsense, nonsense, between pals!’ exclaimed Montgomery, who saw a perspective of long hours passed in the society of a pretty woman–a luxury which his long nose and scraggy figure prevented him from indulging in as frequently as he desired.
After some further discussion, it was arranged that Montgomery should call round some time after breakfast, and that Dick should then leave them together to work away at do, re, mi, fa. Hamilton’s system was purchased, and it surprised and amused Kate to learn that the notes between the spaces spelt ‘face.’ But it was in her singing lessons that she took the most interest, and her voice soon began to improve both in power and quality. She sang the scales for three-quarters of an hour daily, and before the end of the week she so thoroughly satisfied Montgomery in her rendering of a ballad he had bought for her that he begged Dick to ask a few of the ‘Co.’ in to tea next Sunday evening. The shine would be taken out of Beaumont, he declared with emphasis. Kate, however, would not hear of singing before anybody for the present, and she gave up going to the theatre in the evening so that she might have two or three hours of quiet to study music-reading by herself. In the morning she woke to talk of Montgomery, who generally came in while they were at breakfast; and when the lesson was over he would often stop on until they were far advanced in the afternoon; and, looking at each other from time to time, they spoke of the next town they were going to, and alluded to the events of their last journey. Kate would have liked to speak much of Dick, but she felt ashamed, and listened with interest to all Montgomery told her of himself, of the difficulties he had to contend against, of his hopes for the future. He spoke a great deal of his opera, and often sprang up in the middle of a sentence to give a practical illustration of his meaning on the instrument. But these musical digressions did not weary Kate, and to the best of her ability she judged the different versions of the finale. ‘Give the public what they want,’ was his motto, and he intended to act up to it. He had written two or three comic songs that had been immense successes, not to speak of the yards of pantomime music he had composed, and he knew that when he got hold of a good book in three acts he’d be able to tackle it. What he was doing now was not much more than a curtain-raiser; but never mind, that was the way to begin. You couldn’t expect a manager to trust you with the piece of the evening until you’d proved that you could interest the public in smaller work. At this point of the argument Montgomery generally spoke of Dick, whom he declared was a dear good fellow, who would be only too glad to give a pal a lift when the time came. Kate, on her side, longed to hear something of her lover from an outside source. All she knew of him she had learned from his own lips. Montgomery, in whose head all sorts of reveries concerning Kate were floating, was burning to talk to her of her lover, and to hear from her own lips of the happiness which he imagined a true and perfect affection bestowed upon human life. Kate had not spoken on this important subject; and Montgomery, for fear of wounding her feelings, had avoided it; but they were conscious that the restraint jarred their intimacy. One afternoon Dick suddenly burst in upon them, and after some preamble told them that he had arranged to meet there some gentleman with whom he had important business to transact. Montgomery took up his hat and prepared to go, and Kate offered to sit with the landlady in the kitchen.
‘I’m afraid you’ll bore yourself, dear,’ Dick said after a pause. ‘But I’ll tell you what you might do–I shan’t be able to take you out to-day. Why not go for a walk with Montgomery?’
‘I shall be delighted; I’ll take you for a charming walk up the hill, and show you the whole town.’
Kate had no objection to make, and she returned to the sitting-room sooner than they expected her. ‘A quick-change artist,’ Dick said.
She wore a brown costume, trimmed with feathers to match; a small bonnet crowned the top of her head, and her face looked adorably coquettish amid the big bows into which she had tied the strings. Her companion was very conscious of this fact, and with his heart full of pride he occasionally jerked his head round to watch the passers-by, doubting at the same time if any were as happy as he.
It was a great pleasure to be alone with Kate in the open air, walking by her side, escorting her, and telling her as they walked all he knew about Blackpool: that it bore the same relation to the other towns of Lancashire as the seventh day does to the other six of the week; that it was the huge Lancashire Sunday, where the working classes of Accrington, Blackburn, Preston, and Burnley, during a week or a fortnight of the year, go to recreate themselves.
‘The streets are built with large pavements,’ he told her, ‘so that jostling may be avoided, and there are many open spaces where people may loiter and congregate; the bonnets exhibited in the plate-glass windows, you can see, are obviously intended for holiday wear.’ She stopped to look at these. ‘Not one,’ he said, ‘is as pretty as the one you’re wearing.’
‘It’s a pretty little hat,’ she answered, and he pointed to the spider-legged piers and to a high headland, a sort of green cap over the ocean.
‘Do you know that the fellow who owns that building has made a fortune?’ said Montgomery, pointing to the roofs which began to appear above the edge of the common.
‘Did he really?’ replied Kate, trying to appear interested.
‘Yes; he began with a sort of shanty where he sold ginger-beer and lemonade. It became the fashion to go out there, and now he’s got dining-rooms and a spirit licence. We went up there last week, a lot of us, and we had such fun; we went donkey-riding, and Leslie had a fall. Did she tell you of it?’
‘No; I’ve scarcely spoken to her for the last few days.’
‘How’s that? I thought you were such friends.’
‘I like her very much; but she’s always on the stage at night, and I don’t like–I mean I should like–but I don’t know that she would like me to go and see her.’
‘And why not, pray?’
‘Well, I thought she mightn’t like me to come and see her, because, I’m–well, on account of Dick.’
‘There’s nothing between them now; that’s all over ages ago, and she’s dead nuts on Bret.’
Kate had been nearly a fortnight with the mummers, but she had lived almost apart. She had not yet learnt that in the company she was in no opprobrium was attached to the fact of a woman having a lover, and she still supposed that because she had left her husband Leslie might not like to associate with her. To learn, then, that she had only replaced another woman in Dick’s affections came upon her with a shock, and it was the very suddenness of the blow that saved her from half the pain; for it was impossible for a woman who saw in the world nothing but the sacrifice she had made for the man she loved, to realize the fact that Dick’s love of her was a toy that had been taken up, just as love of Miss Leslie was a toy that had been laid down. It did not occur to her to think that the man she was living with might desert her, nor did she experience any very cruel pangs of jealousy; she was more startled than anything else by the appearance of a third person in the world which for the last week had seemed so entirely her own.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘Was Dick in love with Miss Leslie before he knew me?’
Montgomery coloured, and strove to improvise excuses.
‘No,’ he said, ‘of course he wasn’t really in love with her; but we used to chaff him about her; that’s all.’
‘Why should you do that, when she is in love with Bret?’ said Kate harshly.
Montgomery, who dreaded a quarrel with Dick as he would death, grasped at a bit of truth to help him out of his difficulty.
‘But I assure you Bret and Leslie’s affair only began a couple of months ago, when we first went out on tour. We joked Dick about her to vex him, that’s all. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the rest of the company.’
To this Kate made no reply, and with her eyes upon the ground she remained for some moments thinking. The light and the matter-of-course way in which her companion spoke of the affections troubled her exceedingly, and very naively she asked herself if the company did not admit fornication among the sins.
”Tis too bad to be taken up in that way,’ he said. ‘There’s always a bit of chaff going on; but if it were all taken for gospel truth I don’t know where we should be. I give you my word of honour that I don’t think he ever looked twice at her; anyhow, he didn’t hesitate between you; nor could he, for, of course, you know you’re a fifty times prettier woman.’
Kate answered the flattery with a delightful smile, and Montgomery thought that he had convinced her. But the young man was deceived by appearances. He had succeeded more in turning the current of her thoughts than in persuading her.
‘You seem to think very lightly of such things,’ she said, raising her brown eyes with a look that melted her face to a heavenly softness.
Montgomery did not understand, and she was forced to explain. This was difficult to do, but, after a slight hesitation, she said:
‘Then you really do believe that Miss Leslie and Mr. Bret are lovers?’
‘Oh, I really don’t know,’ he said hastily, for he saw himself drawn into a fresh complication; ‘I never pry into other people’s affairs. They seem to like each other, that’s all.’
It was now Kate’s turn to see that indiscreet questions might lead to the quarrels she was most anxious to avoid, and they walked along the breezy common in silence, seeing the sea below them, and far away the weedy waste of stone filled with the white wings of gulls, touched here and there with the black backs of the shrimp-fishers.
‘How strange it is that the sea should go and come like that! I’d never seen it as it is now till the day before yesterday, and Dick was so amused, for I thought it was going to dry up. The morning after our arrival here we sat down by the bathing-boxes on the beach and listened to the waves. They roared along the shore. It’s very wonderful. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, indeed I do. When I was here before, I spent one whole morning listening to the waves, and their surging suggested a waltz to me. This is the way it went,’ and leaning on the rough paling that guarded the precipitous edge, Montgomery sang his unpublished composition. ‘I never got any further,’ he said, stopping short in the middle of the second part; ‘I somehow lost the character of the thing; but I like the opening.’
‘Oh, so do I. I wonder how you can think of such tunes. How clever you must be!’
Montgomery smiled nervously, and he proposed that they should go over to the hotel to have a drink.
‘Oh, I don’t like to go up there,’ she said, after examining for some moments this hillside bar-room. ‘There’re too many men.’
‘What does it matter? We’ll have a table to ourselves. Besides, you’d better have something to eat, for now we’re out we may as well stay out. There’s no use going back yet awhile;’ and he talked so rapidly of his waltz–of whether he should call it the ‘Wave,’ the ‘Seashore,’ or the ‘Cliff,’ that he didn’t give her time to collect her thoughts.
‘I can’t go in there,’ she said; ‘why, it’s only a public-house.’
‘Everybody comes up here to have a drink. It’s quite the fashion.’
The men round the doorway stared at her, and seeing some of the chorus-girls coming from where the donkeys were stationed, in the company of young men with high collars and tight trousers, she almost ran into the bar-room.
‘Now you see what a scrape you’ve led me into, I wouldn’t have met those people for anything.’
‘What does it matter? If it were wrong do you think I’d bring you in here? You ask Dick when you get home.’
A doubt of the possibility of Dick thinking anything wrong clouded Kate’s mind, and Montgomery ordered sandwiches and two brandies-and-sodas. The sandwiches were excellent, and Kate, who had scarcely tasted anything but beer in her life, thought the brandy-and-soda very refreshing. The question then came of how to get out of the place, and after much hesitation and conjecturing, they slipped out the back way through the poultry-yard and stables.
In front of them was a very steep path that led to the sea strand. Large masses of earth had given way, and these had formed ledges which, in turn, had somehow become linked together, and it was possible to climb down these.
‘Do you think you could manage?’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘I don’t know; do you think it dangerous?’
‘No, not if you take care; but the cliff is pretty high; it would not do to fall over. Perhaps you’d better come back across the common by the road.’
‘And meet all those girls?’
‘I don’t see why you should be afraid of meeting them,’ said Montgomery, who was secretly anxious to show the chorus that if he were not the possessor, he was at least on intimate terms of friendship with this pretty woman.
‘No, I’d sooner not meet them, and coming out of a public-house; I don’t see why we shouldn’t come down this way. I’m sure I can manage it if you’ll give me your hand and go first.’
The descent then began. Kate’s high-heeled boots were hard to walk in, and every now and then her feet would fail her, and she would utter little cries of fear, and lean against the cliff’s side. It was delightful to reassure her, and Montgomery profited by those occasions to lay his hands upon her shoulders and hold her arms in his hands. No human creature was in hearing or in sight, and solitude seemed to unite them, and the mimic danger of the descent to endear them to each other. The quiet and enchantment of earth and air melted into her thoughts until she enjoyed a perfect bliss of unreasoned emotion. He, too, was conscious of the day, and his happiness, touched with a diffused sense of desire, was intense, even to a savour of bitterness. Like all young men, he longed to complete his youth by some great passion, but out of horror of the gross sensualities with which he was always surrounded, his delicate artistic nature took refuge in a half-platonic affection for his friend’s mistress. It was an infinite pleasure, and could it have lasted for ever he would not have thought of changing it. To take her by the hand and help her to cross the weedy stones; to watch her pretty stare of wonderment when he explained that the flux and the reflux of the tides were governed by the moon; to hear her speak of love, and to dream what that love might be, was enough.
Along the coast there were miles and miles of reaches, and to gain the sea they were obliged to make many detours. Sometimes they came upon long stretches of sand separated by what seemed to them to be a river, and Montgomery often proposed that he should carry Kate across the streamlet. But she would not hear of it, although on one occasion she did not refuse until he had placed his arms around her waist. Escaping from him, she ran along the edge, saying she would find a crossing. Montgomery pursued her, amused by the fluttering of her petticoats; but after a race of twenty or thirty yards, they found that their discovered river was only a long pool that owned no outlet to the sea, and they both stopped like disappointed children.
‘Well, never mind,’ said Kate; ‘did you ever see such beautiful clear water? I must have a drink.’
‘You’ve no cup,’ he said, turning away so that she should not see him laughing. ‘You might manage to get up a little in your hands.’
‘So I might. Oh, what fun! Tell me how I’m to do it.’
He told her how to hollow her hands, and waited to enjoy the result, and, forgetful that the sea was salt she lifted the brine to her lips; but when she spat out the horrible mouthful and turned on him a questioning face, he only answered that if she didn’t take care she would be the death of him.
‘And didn’t ums know the sea was salt, and did ums think it very nasty, and not half as nice as a brandy-and-soda?’
Kate watched him for a moment, and then her face clouded, and pouting her pretty lips, she said:
‘Of course I don’t pretend to be as clever as you, but if you’d never seen the sea until a week ago you might forget.’
‘Yes, yes, for-for-get that it–it wasn’t as nice as brandy-and-soda,’ cried Montgomery, holding his sides.
‘I wasn’t going to say that, and it was very rude of you to interrupt me in that way.’
‘Now come, don’t get cross. You should understand a joke better than that,’ he replied, for seeing the tears in her eyes he began to fear that he had spoilt the delight of their day.
‘I think it is unkind of you to laugh at me and play tricks on me like that,’ said Kate, trying to master her emotion; and as they walked under the sunset, Montgomery broke long and irritating silences by apologizing for his indiscretion, but Kate did not answer him until they arrived at a place where a little boy and girl were fishing for shrimps. Here there was quite a little lake, and amid the rocks and weedy stones the clear water flowed as it might in an aquarium, the liquid surface reflecting as perfectly as any mirror the sky’s blue, with clouds going by and many delicate opal tints, and the forms of the children’s plump limbs.
‘Oh, how nice they look! What little dears!’ exclaimed Kate, but as she pressed forward to watch the children her foot dislodged a young lobster from the corner of rock in which he had been hiding.
‘That’s a lobster,’ cried Montgomery.
‘Is it?’ cried Kate, and she pursued the ungainly thing, which sought vainly for a crevice.
After an animated chase, with the aid of her parasol she caught it, and was about to take it up with her fingers when Montgomery stopped her.
‘You’d better take care; it will pretty well nip the fingers off you.’
‘You aren’t joking?’ she asked innocently.
‘No, indeed I’m not; but I hope you don’t mind my telling you.’
At that moment their eyes met, and Kate, seeing how foolish she had been, burst into fits of laughter.
‘No, no, no, I–I don’t mind your telling me that–that a lobster bites, but–‘
‘But when it comes to saying sea-water is not as nice as brandy-and-soda,’ he replied, bursting into a roar of merriment, ‘we cut up rough, don’t we?’
The children climbed up on the rocks to look at them, and it was some time before Kate could find words to ask them to show what they had caught.
The little boy was especially clever at his work, and regardless of wetting himself, he plunged into the deepest pools, intercepting with his net at every turn the shrimps that vainly sought to escape him. His little sister, too, was not lacking in dexterity, and between them they had filled a fairly-sized basket. Kate examined everything with an almost feverish interest. She tore long gluey masses of seaweed from the rocks and insisted on carrying them home; the mussels she found on the rocks interested her; she questioned the little shrimp fishers for several minutes about a dead starfish, and they stared in open-eyed amazement, thinking it very strange that a grown-up woman should ask such questions. At last the little boy showed her what she was to do with the lobster. He wedged the claws with two bits of wood, and attached a string whereby she might carry it in her hand, and in silences that were only interrupted by occasional words they picked their way along the strand.
Kate thought of Dick–of what he was doing, of what he was saying. She saw him surrounded by men; there were glasses on the table. She looked into his large, melancholy blue eyes, and dreamed of the time she would again sit on his knees and explain to him for the hundredth time that love was all-sufficing, and that he who possessed it could possess nothing more. Montgomery was also thinking of Dick, and for the conquest of so pretty a woman the dreamy-minded musician viewed his manager with admiration. The morality of the question did not appeal to him, and his only fear was that Kate would one day be deserted. ‘If so, I shall have to support her.’ He thought of the music he would have to compose–songs, all of which would be dedicated to her.
‘Have you known Dick,’ she asked suddenly, ‘a long time?’
‘Two or three years or so,’ replied Montgomery, a little abashed at a question which sounded at that moment like a distant echo of his own thoughts. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘For no particular reason, only you seem such great friends.’
‘Yes, I like him very much; he’s a dear good fellow, he’d divide his last bob with a pal.’
The conversation then came to a pause. Both suddenly remembered how they had set out on their walk determined to seek information of each other on certain subjects.
Montgomery wished to hear from Kate how Dick had persuaded her to run away with him; Kate wanted to learn from Montgomery something of her lover’s private life–if he were faithful to a woman when he loved her, if he had been in love with many women before.
As she considered how she would put her questions a grey cloud passed over her face, and she thought of Leslie. But just as she was going to speak Montgomery interrupted her. He said:
‘You didn’t know Dick before he came to lodge in your house at Hanley, did you?’
Kate raised her eyes with a swift and startled look, but being anxious to speak on the subject she replied, speaking very softly:
‘No, and perhaps it would have been well if he had never come to my house.’
There was not so much insincerity in the phrase as may at first appear. Nearly all women consider it necessary to maintain to themselves and to others that they deeply regret having sinned. The delusion at once pleases and consoles them, and they cling to it to the last.
‘I often think of you,’ said Montgomery. ‘Yours appears to me such a romantic story … you who sat all day and mi-mi–‘ he was going to say minding a sick husband, but for fear of wounding her feelings he altered the sentence to ‘and never, or hardly ever, left Hanley in your life, should be going about the country with us.’
Kate, who guessed what he had intended saying, answered:
‘Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been very wicked. I often think of it and you must despise me. That’s what makes me ashamed to go about with the rest of the company. I’m always wondering what they think of me. Tell me, do tell me the truth; I don’t mind hearing it. What do they say about me? Do they abuse me very much?’
‘Abuse you? They abuse you for being a pretty woman, I suppose; but as for anything else, good heavens! they’d look well! Why, you’re far the most respectable one among the lot. Don’t you know that?’
‘I suspected Beaumont was not quite right, perhaps; but you don’t mean to say there isn’t one? Not that little thing with fair hair who sings in the chorus?’
‘Well, yes, they say she’s all right. There are one or two, perhaps; but when it comes to asking me if Beaumont and Leslie are down on you–well!’ Montgomery burst out laughing.
This decided expression of opinion was grateful to Kate’s feelings, and the conversation might have been pursued with advantage, but seeing an opportunity of speaking of Dick, she said:
‘But you told me there was nothing between Mr. Bret and Miss Leslie.’
‘I told you I didn’t know whether there was or not; but I’m quite sure there never was between her and Dick. You see I can guess what you’re trying to get at.’
‘I can scarcely believe it. Now I think of it, I remember she was in his room the night of the row, when he turned me out.’
‘Yes, yes; but there were a lot of us. The principals in a company generally stick together. It’s extraordinary how you women will keep on nagging at a thing. I swear to you that I’m as certain as I stand here there was never anything between them. Do let us talk of something else.’
They had now wandered back to the fine pebbly beach, to within a hundred yards of the pier, and above the high cliff they could just see the red chimney-stacks of the town.
Montgomery sang his waltz softly over, but before he arrived at the second part his thoughts wandered, and he said:
‘Have you heard anything of your husband since you left Hanley?’
The abruptness of the question made Kate start; but she was not offended, and she answered:
‘No, I haven’t. I wonder what he’ll do.’
‘Possibly apply for a divorce. If he does, you’ll be able to marry Dick.’
A flush of pleasure passed over Kate’s face, and when she raised her eyes her look seemed to have caught some of the brightness of the sunset. But it died into grey gloom even as the light above, and she said sighing:
‘I don’t suppose he’d marry me.’
‘Well, if he wouldn’t, there are lots who would.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kate simply.
‘Oh, nothing; only I should think that anyone would be glad to marry you,’ the young man answered, hoping that she would not repeat the conversation to her lover.
‘I hope he will; for if he were to leave me, I think I should die. But tell me–you will, won’t you? For you are my friend, aren’t you?’
‘I hope so,’ he replied constrainedly.
‘Well, tell me the truth: do you think he can be constant to a woman? Does he get tired easily? Does he like change?’
Kate laid her hand on Montgomery’s shoulder, and looked pleadingly in his face.
‘Dick is an awful good fellow, and I’m sure he couldn’t but behave well to anyone he liked–not to say loved; and I know that he never cared for anybody as he does for you; he as much as told me.’
Kate’s smile was expressive of pleasure and, weariness, and after a pause, she said:
‘I hope what you say is true; but I don’t think men ever love as women do. When we give our heart to one man, we cannot love another. I don’t know why, but I don’t believe that a man could be quite faithful to a woman.’
‘That’s all nonsense. I’m sure that if I loved a woman it wouldn’t occur to me to think of another.’
‘Perhaps you might,’ she answered; and, unconsciously comparing them with Dick’s jovial features, she examined intently the enormous nose and the hollow, sunken cheeks. Montgomery wondered what she was thinking of, and he half guessed that she was considering if it were possible that any woman could care for him. To die without ever having been able to inspire an affection was a fear that was habitual to him, and often at night he lay awake, racked by the thought that his ugliness would ever debar him from attaining this dearly desired end.
‘Were you ever in love with anybody?’ she asked, after a long silence.
‘Yes, once.’
‘And did she care for you?’
‘Yes, I think she did at first. We used to meet at dinner every day; but then she fell in love with an acrobat–I suppose you would call him an acrobat–I mean one of those gutta-percha men who tie their legs in a knot over their heads. The child was deformed. I was awfully cut up about it at the time, but it’s all over now.’
The conversation then came to a pause. Kate did not like to ask any further questions, but as she stared vaguely at the pale sun setting, she wondered what the acrobat was like, and how a girl could prefer a gutta-percha man to the musician. As the minutes passed, the silence grew more irritating, and the evening colder.
‘I’m afraid we shall catch a chill if we remain here much longer, said Montgomery, who had again begun to sing his waltz over.
‘Yes, I think we’d better be getting home,’ Kate answered dreamily.
After some searching, they found a huge stairway cut for the use of bathers in the side of the cliff, and up this feet-torturing path Montgomery helped Kate carefully and lovingly.
XIV
From Blackpool Morton and Cox’s opera company proceeded to Southport, and, still going northward, they visited Newcastle, Durham, Dundee, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. But in no one town did they remain more than a week Every Sunday morning, regardless as swallows of chiming church-bells, they met at the station and were whirled as fast as steam could take them to new streets, lodging-houses, and theatres. To Kate this constant change was at once wearying and perplexing, and she often feared that she would never become accustomed to her new mode of life. But on the principle that we can scarcely be said to be moving when all around is moving in a like proportion, Kate learned to regard locality as a mere nothing, and to fix her centre of gravity in the forty human beings who were wandering with her, bound to her by the light ties of _opera bouffe_.
Wherever she went her life remained the same. She saw the same faces, heard the same words. Were they likely to do good business? was debated when they alighted from the train; that they had or had not done good business was affirmed when they jumped into the train. Soon even the change of apartments ceased to astonish her, and she saw nothing surprising in the fact that her chest of drawers was one week on the right and the following on the left-hand side of her bed. Nor did she notice after two or three months of travelling whether wax flowers did or did not decorate the corners of her sitting-room, and it seemed to her of no moment whether the Venetian blinds were green or brown. The dinners she ate were as good in one place as in another; the family resemblance which slaveys bear to each other satisfied her eyes, and the difference of latitude and longitude between Glasgow and Aberdeen she found did not in the least alter her daily occupations.
Montgomery came to see her every morning, and the tunefulness of the piano was really all that reminded them of their change of residence. From twelve until three they worked at music, both vocal and instrumental. Dick sought for excuses to absent himself, but when he returned he always insisted that Montgomery should remain to dinner. All formalities between them were abolished, and Kate did not hesitate to sit on her lover’s knees hi the presence of her music-master. But he did not seem to care, he only laughed a little nervously. Kate sometimes wondered if he really disliked witnessing such familiarities. In her heart of hearts she was conscious that there were affinities of sentiment between them, and during the music lessons they talked continually of love. The sight of Montgomery’s lanky face often interrupted an emotional mood, but she recovered it again when he sat looking at her, talking to her of his music. In this way he became a necessity to her existence, a sort of spiritual light. They never wearied of talking about Dick; between them it was always Dick, Dick, Dick! He told her anecdotes concerning him–how he had acted certain parts; how he had stage-managed certain pieces; of supper parties; of adventures they had been engaged in. These stories amused Kate, although the odour of woman in which they were bathed, as in an atmosphere, annoyed and troubled her. As if to repay him for his kindness, she became confidential, and one day she told him the story of her life.
It would, she said, were it taken down, make the most wonderful story-book ever written; and beginning at the beginning, she gave rapidly an account of her childhood, accentuating the religious and severe manner in which she had been brought up, until the time she and her mother made the acquaintance of the Edes. There it was necessary to hesitate. She did not wish to tell an absolute lie, but was yet desirous to convey the impression that her marriage with Mr. Ede had been forced upon her; but Montgomery had already accepted it as a foregone conclusion. With his fingers twisted through his hair, and his head thrust forward in the position in which we are accustomed to see composers seeking inspiration depicted, he listened, passionately interested. And when it came to telling of the mental struggle she had gone through when struggling between her love for Dick and her duty towards her husband, Montgomery’s face, under the influence of many emotions, straightened and contracted. He asked a hundred questions, and was anxious to know what she had thought of Dick when she saw him for the first time. She told him all she could remember. Her account of the visit to the potteries proved very amusing, but before she told him of their fall amid the cups and saucers she made Montgomery swear he would never breathe a word. ‘Oh, the devil! Was that the way he cut his legs? He told us that he had forgotten his latchkey, and that he had done it in getting over the garden-wall.’
Running his hand over the piano, Montgomery begged of Kate to continue her story; but as she proceeded with the analysis of her passion the events became more and more difficult to narrate; and she knew not how to tell the tale how one dark night her husband sent her down to open the door to Dick; but she must tell everything so that the whole of the blame should not fall upon him. She alluded vaguely to violence and to force; Montgomery’s face darkened and he protested against his friend’s conduct.
To Kate it was consoling to meet someone who thought she was not entirely to blame, and the conversation came to a pause.
‘And now I’m going about the country with you all, and am thinking of going on the stage.’
‘And will be a success, too–that I’ll bet my life.’
‘Do you really think so? Do tell me the real truth; do you think I shall ever be able to sing?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so, for it’s now more necessary than ever.’
‘How do you mean? Has anything fresh happened? You’re not on bad terms with Dick, are you? Tell me.’
‘Oh, not the least! Dick is very good to me; but if I tell you something you promise not to mention it?’
‘I promise.’
‘Well, we were–I don’t know what you call it–summoned, I think–by a man before we left Blackpool to appear in the Divorce Court.’
For nearly half a minute they looked at each other in silence; then Montgomery said:
‘I suppose it was after all about the best thing that could happen.’
This answer surprised Kate. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘do you think it’s the best thing that could happen to me?’
‘Because when you get your divorce, if you play your cards well, you’ll be able to get Dick to marry you.’
Kate made no reply, and for some time both considered the question in silence. She wondered if Dick loved her sufficiently to make such a sacrifice for her: Montgomery reflected on the best means of persuading his friend ‘to do right by the woman,’ At last he said:
‘But what did you mean just now when you said that it was more necessary than ever that you should go on the stage?’
‘I don’t know, only that if I’m going to be divorced I suppose I’d better see what I can do to get my living.’
‘Well, it isn’t my fault if you aren’t on the stage already. I’ve been trying to induce you to make up your mind for the last month past.’
‘Oh, the chorus! that horrid chorus! I never could walk about before a whole theatre full of people in those red tights.’
‘There’s nothing indecent in wearing tights. Our leading actresses play in travestie. In Faust Trebelli Bettini wears tights, and I’m sure no one can say anything against her.’
Tights were a constant subject of discussion between the three, friend, mistress, and lover. All sorts of arguments had been adduced, but none of them had shaken Kate’s unreasoned convictions on this point. A sense of modesty inherited through generations rose to her head, and a feeling of repugnance that seemed almost invincible, forbade her to bare herself thus to the eyes of a gazing public. But although inborn tendencies cannot be eradicated, the will that sustains them can be broken by force of circumstances, and her resolutions began to fail her when Dick declared that the thirty shillings a week she would thus earn would be a real assistance to them.
In reality the manager had no immediate need of the money, but it went against his feelings to allow principles, and above all principles he could not but think absurd, to stand in the way of his turning over a bit of coin. ‘Besides, he said, ‘how can I put you into a leading business all at once? No matter how well you knew your words, you’d dry up when you got before the footlights. You must get over your stage fright in the chorus. On the first occasion I’ll give you a line to speak, then two or three, and then when you’ve learnt to blurt them out without hesitation, we’ll see about a part.’
These and similar phrases were dinned into her ears, until at last the matter got somehow decided, and the London costumier was telegraphed to for a new dress. When it arrived a few days after, the opening of the package caused a good deal of merriment. Dick held up the long red stockings, as Kate called the tights, before Montgomery. It was too late now to retract. The dress looked beautiful, and tempted on all sides, she consented to appear that night in _Les Cloches_. So at half-past six she walked down to the theatre with her bundle under her arm. Dick had not allotted to her a dressing-room, and to avoid Miss Beaumont, who was always rude, she went of her own accord up to number six. An old woman opened the door to her, and when Kate had explained what she had come for, she said:
‘Very well, ma’am. I’m sure I don’t mind; but we’re already eight in this room, and have only one basin and looking-glass between the lot. I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable.’
‘Oh! that won’t matter. It may be only for to-night. If I’m too much in the way I’ll ask Mr. Lennox to put me somewhere else.’
On that Kate entered. It was a long, narrow, whitewashed room, smelling strongly of violet-powder and clothes. Nobody had arrived yet, and the dresses lay spread out on chairs awaiting the wearers. One was a peasant-girl’s dress–a short calico skirt trimmed with wreaths of wild flowers, and she regretted that she could not exchange the page’s attire for one of these.
‘And as regards the tights,’ added the old woman, ‘you’d have to wear them just the same with peasant-girls’ frocks as with these trunks, for, as you can see, the skirts only just come below the knees.’
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the clattering of feet on the rickety staircase and two girls entered talking loudly; Kate had often spoken to them in the wings. Then some more women arrived, and Kate withdrew her chair as far out of reach as possible of the flying petticoats and the scattered boots and shoes. One lady could not find her tights, another insisted on the bodice of her dress being laced up at once; three voices shouted at once for the dresser, and the call-boy was heard outside:
‘Ladies! ladies! Mr. Lennox is waiting; the curtain is going up.’
‘All right! all right!’ cried an octave of treble voices, and tripping over their swords, those who were ready hurried downstairs, leaving the others screaming at the dresser, who was vainly attempting to tidy the room.
When Kate got on the stage the first person she saw was Montgomery, the very one she wished most to avoid. After having conducted the overture he had come up to find out the reason of the ‘wait.’ Dick was rushing about, declaring that if this ever occurred again half a-crown would be stopped out of all the salaries.
‘Oh! how very nice we look! and they’re not thin,’ exclaimed Montgomery, pushing his glasses up on his nose. And forgetting his difficulties as if by magic, Dick smiled with delight as, holding her at arm’s length, he looked at her critically.
‘Charming, my dear! There won’t be a man in front who won’t fall in love with you. But I must see where I can place you.’
All the rest passed as rapidly as in a dream, and before she could again think distinctly she was walking round the stage in the company of a score of other girls. Treading in time to the music, they formed themselves into lines, making place for Leslie, who came running down to the footlights. There was no time for thinking; she was whirled along. Between the acts she had to rush upstairs to put on another dress; between the scenes she had to watch to know when she had to go on. Sometimes Dick spoke to her, but he was generally far away, and it was not until the curtain had been rung down for the last time that she got an opportunity of speaking to him.
As they walked home up the dark street when all was over, she laid her hand affectionately on his arm:
‘Tell me, Dick, are you satisfied with me? I’ve done my best to please you.’
‘Satisfied with you?’ replied the big man, turning towards her in his kind unctuous way, ‘I should think so: you looked lovely, and your voice was heard above everybody’s. I wish you’d heard what Montgomery said. I’ll give you a line to speak when you’ve got a bit of confidence. You’re a bit timid, that’s all.’ And delighted Kate listened to Dick, who had begun to sketch out a career for her. Her voice, he said, would improve. She’d have twice the voice in a year from now, and with twice the voice she’d not only be able to sing Clairette in _Madame Angot_, but all Schneider’s great parts.
He talked on and on, and in the early hours of the morning he was relating how _The Brigands_ had failed at the Globe, the conditions of his capitalist being that his mistress was to play one of the leading parts at a high salary, and that he was to take over the bars. That was thirty pounds a week gone; and the woman sang so fearfully out of tune that she was hissed–a pity, for the piece contained some of Offenbach’s best music. A casual reference to the dresses led up to a detailed account of how he had bought the satin down at the Docks at the extraordinary low price of two shillings a yard, and this bargain prepared the way for a long story concerning a girl who had worn one of these identical dresses. She was now a leading London actress, and every step of her upward career was gone into. Then followed several biographies. Charlie —- sang in the chorus and was now a leading tenor. Miss —- had married a rich man on the Stock Exchange; and so on. Indeed, everybody in that ill-fated piece seemed to have succeeded except the manager himself. But no such criticism occurred to Kate. Her heart was swollen with admiration for the man who had been once at the head of all this talent, and the rich-coloured future he would shape for her flowed hazily through her mind.
And Kate grew happier as the days passed until she began to think she must be the happiest woman living. Her life had now an occupation, and no hour that went pressed upon her heavier than would a butterfly’s wing. The mornings when Dick was with her had always been delightful; and the afternoons had been taken up with her musical studies. It was the long evenings she used to dread; now they had become part and parcel of her daily pleasures. They dined about four, and when dinner was over it was time to talk about what kind of house they were going to have, to fidget about in search of brushes and combs, the curling-tongs, and to consider what little necessaries she had better bring down to the theatre with her. At first it seemed very strange to her to go tripping down these narrow streets at a certain hour–streets that were filled with people, for the stage and the pit entrance are always within a few yards of each other, and to hear the passers-by whisper as she went by, ‘She’s one of the actresses.’ One day she found a letter addressed to her under the name chosen by Dick–a picturesque name he thought looked well on posters–and not suspecting what was in it, she tore open the envelope in presence of half-a-dozen chorus-girls, who had collected in the passage. A diamond ring fell on the floor, and in astonishment Kate read:
‘DEAR MISS D’ARCY,–In recognition of your beauty and the graceful way in which you play your part, I beg to enclose you a ring, which I hope to see on your finger to-night. If you wear it on the right hand I shall understand that you will allow me to wait for you at the stage-door. If, however, you decide that my little offering suits better your left hand, I shall understand that I am unfortunate.
‘(Signed) AN ADMIRER.’
‘Who left this here?’ asked Kate of the doorkeeper.
‘A tall young gent–a London man, I should think, by the cut of him, but he left no name.’
‘A very pretty ring, anyhow,’ said a girl, picking it up.
‘Not bad,’ said another; ‘I got one like it last year at Sheffield,’
‘But what shall I do with it?’ asked Kate.
‘Why, wear it, of course,’ answered two or three voices simultaneously.
‘Wear it!’ she repeated, and feeling very much like one in possession of stolen goods, she hurried on to the stage, intending to ask Dick what she was to do with the ring. She found him disputing with the property man, and it was some time before he could bring himself to forget the annoyance that a scarcity of daggers had occasioned him. At last, however, with a violent effort of will, he took the note from her hand and read it through. When he had mastered the contents a good-natured smile illumined his chub-cheeked face, and he said:
‘Well, what do you want to say? I think the ring a very nice one; let’s see how it looks on your hand,’
‘You don’t mean that I’m to wear it?’
‘And why not? I think it’s a very nice ring,’ the manager said unaffectedly. ‘Wear it first on one hand and then on the other, dear; that will puzzle him,’
‘But supposing he comes to meet me at the stage-door?’
‘Well, what will that matter? We’ll go out together; I’ll see that he keeps his distance. But now run up and get dressed.’
‘Now then, come in,’ cried Dolly, who was walking about in a pair of blue stockings. ‘You’re as bashful as an undergraduate.’
A roar of laughter greeted this sally, and feeling humiliated, she began to dress.
‘You haven’t heard Dolly’s story of the undergraduate?’ shouted a girl from the other end of the room.
‘No, and don’t want to,’ replied Kate, indignantly. ‘The conversation in this room is perfectly horrid. I shall ask Mr. Lennox to change me. And really, Miss Goddard, I think you might manage to dress yourself with a little more decency.’
‘Well, if you call this dress,’ exclaimed Dolly, fanning herself. ‘I suppose one must take off one’s stockings to please you. You’re as bad as—-‘
Dolly was the wit of No. 6 dressing-room, and having obtained her laugh she sought to conciliate Kate. To achieve this she began by putting on her tights.
‘Now, Mrs. Lennox,’ she said, ‘don’t be angry; if I’ve a good figure I can’t help it. And I do want to hear about the diamond ring.’
This was said so quaintly, so cunningly, as the Americans would say, that Kate couldn’t help smiling, and abandoning her hand she allowed Dolly to examine the ring.
‘I never saw anything prettier in my life. It wasn’t an undergra–?’ said the girl, who was a low comedian at heart and knew the value of repetition.
‘I must drink to his health. Who has any liquor? Have you, Vincent?’
‘Just a drain left,’ said a fat girl, pulling a flat bottle out of a dirty black skirt, ‘but I’m going to keep it for the end of the second act.’
‘Selfishness will be your ruin,’ said Dolly. ‘Let’s subscribe to drink the gentleman’s health,’she added, winking at the bevy of damsels who stood waiting, their hands on their hips. And it being impossible for Kate to misunderstand what was expected of her she said:
‘I shall be very glad to stand treat. What shall it be?’
After some discussion it was agreed that they could not do better than a bottle of whisky. The decrepit dresser was given the money, with strict injunctions from Dolly not to uncork the bottle. ‘We can do that ourselves,’ the girl added, facetiously; and a noisy interest was manifested in the ring, the sender and the letter. Kate said that Dick had advised her to wear the ring first on one hand and then on the other.
‘To keep changing it from one hand to another,’ cried Dolly; ‘not a bad idea; and now to the health and success of the sender of the ring.’
‘I cannot drink to that toast,’ Kate answered, laying aside her glass.
‘That the word “success” be omitted from the toast’ cried Dolly, and the merriment did not cease until the call-boy was heard crying, ‘Ladies, ladies! Mr. Lennox is waiting on the stage.’ Then there was a scramble for the glass and the dresser, and Dolly’s voice was heard screaming:
‘Now then, Mother Hubbard, have you the sweet-stuff I told you to get? I don’t want to go downstairs stinking of raw spirit.’
‘I couldn’t get any,’ said the old woman, ‘but I brought two slices of bread; that’ll do as well.’
‘You’re a knowing old card,’ said Dolly. ‘Eat a mouthful or two, it’ll take the smell off, Mrs. Lennox,’ and the girls rattled down the staircase, arriving on the stage only just in time for their cue.
‘Cue for soldiers’ entrance,’ the prompter cried, and on they went, Montgomery taking the music a little quicker than usual till Kate, who was now in the big eight, clean forgot how often she had changed her ring from the left hand to the right. But she did wear it on different hands, and no admirer came up and spoke to her at the stage-door. Dick was there waiting for her; she felt quite safe on his arm, and as soon as they had had a mouthful of supper they began the weekly packing.
Next morning it was train and station, station and train, but despite many delays they managed to catch the train, and on Monday night her gracefulness was winning for her new admirers: in every town the company visited she received letters and presents; none succeeded, however, in weakening her love, or persuading her from Dick.
‘Yet lovers around her are sighing,’ Montgomery chuckled, and Dick began to consider seriously the means to be adopted to secure Kate’s advancement in her new profession. One night Montgomery returned home with them after the performance, Bringing with him the script, and till one in the morning the twain sat together trying to devise some extra lines for the first scene in _Les Cloches_.
‘The scene,’ Dick said, ‘is on the seashore. The girls are on their way to market.’
‘Supposing she said something like this, eh? “Mr. Baillie, do you like brown eyes and cherry lips?” And then another would reply, “Cherry brandy most like.”‘
‘No, I don’t think the public would see the point; you must remember we’re not playing to a London public. I think we’d better have something broader.’
‘Well, what?’
‘You remember the scene in _Chilperic_ when—-‘
The conversation wandered; and Mr. Diprose’s version of the opera and his usual vile taste in the stage management was severely commented on. In such pleasant discussion an hour was agreeably spent; but at last the sudden extinguishing of a cigarette reminded them that they had met for the purpose of writing some dialogue. After a long silence Dick said:
‘Supposing she were to say, “Mr. Baillie, you’ve a fine head.” You know I want something she’d get a laugh with.’
‘If she said the truth, she’d say a fat head,’ replied Montgomery with a laugh.
‘And why shouldn’t she? That’s the very thing. She’s sure to get a laugh with that–“Mr. Baillie, you have a fat head.” Let’s get that down first. But what shall she say after?’ And in silence they ransacked their memories for a joke which could be fitted to the one they had just discovered.
After some five minutes of deep consideration, and wearied by the unaccustomed mental strain put upon his mind, Dick said:
‘Do you know the music of _Trone d’Ecosse_? Devilish good. If the book had been better it would have been a big success.’
‘The waltz is about the prettiest thing Herve has done.’
This expression of opinion led up to an animated discussion, in which the rival claims of Herve and Planquette were forcibly argued. Many cigarettes were smoked, and not until the packet was emptied did it occur to them that only one ‘wheeze’ had been found.
‘I never can do anything without a cigarette; do try to find me one in the next room, Kate, dear. Listen, Montgomery, we’ve got “Baillie, you’ve a fat head.” That’ll do very well for a beginning; but I’m not good at finding wheezes.’
‘And then I can say, “Baillie, you’ve a fine head,”‘ said Kate, who had been listening dreamily for a long time, afraid to interrupt.
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Dick. ‘Let’s get it down.’
‘And then,’ screamed Montgomery, as he perched both his legs over the arm of his chair, ‘she can say, “I mean a great head, Mr. Baillie.”‘
For a moment Dick’s eyes flashed with the light of admiration, and he seemed to be considering if it were not his duty to advise the conductor that his talents lay in dialogue rather than in music. But his sentiments, whatever they may have been, disappeared in the burst of inspiration he had been waiting for so long.
‘We can go through the whole list of heads,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Fat head, fine head, broad head, thick head, massive head–yes, massive head. The Baillie will appear pleased at that, and will repeat the phrase, and then she will say “Dunderhead!” He’ll get angry, and she’ll run away. That’ll make a splendid exit–she’ll exit to a roar.’
Dick noted down the phrases on a piece of paper, to be pasted afterwards into the script. When this was done, he said:
‘My dear, if you don’t get a roar with these lines, you can call me a —-. And when we play the piece at Hull, I shouldn’t be surprised if you got noticed in the papers. But you must pluck up courage and check the Baillie. We must put up a rehearsal to-morrow for these lines. Now listen, Montgomery, and tell me how it reads.’
XV
‘Rehearsal to-morrow at twelve for all those in the front scene of the _Cloches_,’ cried the stage-door keeper to half-a-dozen girls as they pushed past him.
‘Well I never! and I was going out to see the castle and the ramparts of the town,’ said one girl.
‘I wonder what it’s for,’ said another; ‘it went all right, I thought–didn’t you? Did you hear any reason, Mr. Brown?’
‘I ‘ear there are to be new lines put in,’ replied the stage-door keeper, surlily, ‘but I don’t know. Don’t bother me.’
At the mention of the new lines the faces of the girls brightened, but instantly they strove to hide the hope and anxiety the announcement had caused them, and in the silence that followed each tried to think how she could get a word with Mr. Lennox. At length one more enterprising than the rest said:
‘I must run back. I’ve forgotten my handkerchief.’
‘You needn’t mind your handkerchief, you won’t see Mr. Lennox to-night,’ exclaimed Dolly, who always trampled on other people’s illusions as readily as she did on her own. ‘The lines aren’t for you nor me, nor any of us,’ she continued. ‘You little silly, can’t you guess who they’re for? For his girl, of course!’
Murmurs of assent followed this statement, and, her hands on her hips, Dolly triumphantly faced her auditors.
‘It’s damned hard, but you can’t expect the man to take her out of her linen-drapery for nothing.’
The old stage-door keeper, whose attention had been concentrated on what he was eating out of a jam-pot, now suddenly woke up to the fact that the passage was blocked, and that a group of musicians with boxes in their hands were waiting to get through.
‘Now, ladies, I must ask you to move on; there’re a lot of people behind you.’
‘Yes, get on, girls; we’re all up a tree this time, and the moral of it is that we haven’t yet learnt how to fall in love with the manager. The paper-collar woman has beaten us at our own game.’
A roar of laughter followed this remark, which was heard by everybody, and pushing the girls before her, Dolly cleared the way.
These girls, whose ambitions in life were first to obtain a line–that is to say, permission to shout, in their red tights, when the low comedian appears on the stage, ‘Oh, what a jolly good fellow the Duke is!’–secondly, to be asked out to dinner by somebody they imagine looks like a gentleman, revolted against hearing this paper-collar woman, as they now called her, speak the long-dreamed-of, long-described phrases; and at night they did everything they dared to ‘queer’ her scene. They crowded round her, mugged, and tried to divert the attention of the house from her.
She had to say, ‘Mr. Baillie, you’ve a fine head.’ _Baillie (patting his crown)_: ‘Yes, a fine head!’ _Kate_: ‘A fat head.’ _Baillie (indignantly)_: ‘A fat head!’ _Kate (hurriedly)_: ‘I mean a broad head.’ _Baillie_: ‘Yes, a broad head.’ _Kate_: ‘A thick head.’ _Baillie (indignantly)_: ‘A thick head!’ _Kate_: ‘No, no; a solid head.’ And so on _ad lib._ for ten minutes.
The scene went splendidly. The pit screamed, and the gallery was in convulsions, and in the street next day nothing was heard but ironical references to fat and thick heads. The girls had not succeeded in spoiling the scene, for, encouraged by the applause, Kate had chaffed and mocked at the Baillie so winningly that she at once won the sympathy of the house. But the following night a tall, sour-faced girl, who wore pads, and with whom Kate had had some words concerning her coarse language, hit upon an ingenious device for ‘queering the scene!’ Her trick was to burst into a roar of laughter just before she had time to say, ‘A fat head.’ The others soon tumbled to the trick, and in a night or two they worked so well together that Kate grew nervous and she could not speak her lines. This made her feel very miserable; and her stage experience being limited, she ascribed her non-success to her own fault, until one night Dick rushed on to the stage as soon as the curtain was down, and putting up his arms with a large gesture, he called the company back.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’ve noticed that the front scene in this act has not been going as well as it used to. I don’t want anyone to tell me why this is so; the reason is sufficiently obvious, at least to me. I shall expect, therefore, the ladies whom this matter concerns to attend a rehearsal to-morrow at twelve, and if after that I notice what I did tonight, I shall at once dismiss the delinquents from the company. I hope I make myself understood.’
After this explanation, any further interference with Kate’s scene was, of course, out of the question, and the verdict of each new town more and more firmly established its success. But if Dick’s presence controlled the girls whilst they were on the stage, his authority did not reach to the dressing-rooms. Kate’s particular enemy was Dolly Goddard. Not a night passed that this girl did not refer to the divorce cases she had read of in the papers, or pretended to have heard of. Her natural sharp wit enabled her to do this with considerable acidity. ‘Never heard such a thing in my life, girls,’ she would begin. ‘They talk of us, but what we do is child’s play compared with the doings of the respectable people. A baker’s wife in this blessed town has just run away with the editor of a newspaper, leaving her six little children behind her, one of them being a baby no more than a month old’
‘What will the husband do?’
‘Get a divorce.’ (Chorus–‘He’ll get a divorce, of course, of course, of course!’)
To this delicate irony no answer was possible, and Kate could only bite her lips, and pretend not to understand. But it was difficult not to turn pale and tremble sometimes, so agonizing were the anecdotes that the active brain of Dolly conjured up concerning the atrocities that pursuing husbands had perpetrated with knife and pistol on the betrayers of their happiness. And when these scarecrows failed, there were always the stories to fall back upon. A word sufficed to set the whole gang recounting experiences, and comparing notes. A sneer often curled the corners of Kate’s lips, but to protest she knew would be only to expose herself to a rude answer, and to appeal to Dick couldn’t fail to excite still further enmity against her. Besides, what could he do? How could he define what were and what were not proper conversations for the dressing-rooms? But she might ask him to put her to dress with the principals, and this she decided to do one evening when the words used in No. 6 had been more than usually warm.
Dick made no objection, and with Leslie and Beaumont Kate got on better.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ said Leslie, as she bent to allow the dresser to place a wreath of orange-blossom on her head. ‘I wonder you didn’t think of asking Mr. Lennox to put you with us before.’
‘I didn’t like to. I was afraid of being in your way,’ Kate answered. ‘I hope Beaumont won’t mind my being here.’
‘What matter if she does? Beaumont isn’t half a bad sort once you begin to understand her. Just let her talk to you about her diamonds and her men, and it will be all right.’
‘But why haven’t you been to see me lately? I want you to come out shopping with me one day next week. We shall be at York. I hear there are some good shops there.’
‘Yes, there are, and I should have been to see you before, but Frank has just got some new scores from London, and he wanted me to try them over with him. There’s one that’s just been produced in Paris–the loveliest music you ever heard in all your life. Come up to my place to-morrow and I’ll play it over to you. But talking of music, I hear that you’re getting on nicely.’
‘I think I’m improving; Montgomery comes to practise with me every morning.’
‘He’s all very well for the piano, but he can’t teach you to produce your voice. What does he know? That brat of a boy! I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ cried Leslie, suddenly confronting Kate: ‘we’re going to York next week. Well, I’ll introduce you to a first-rate man. He’d do more with you in six lessons than Montgomery in fifty. And the week after we shall be at Leeds. I can introduce you to another there.’
‘The curtain is just going up, Miss Leslie,’ cried the call boy.
‘All right,’ cried the prima donna, throwing the hare’s-foot to the dresser, ‘I must be off now. We’ll talk of this to-morrow.’
Immediately after the stately figure of Beaumont entered. Putting her black bag down with a thump on the table she exclaimed:
‘Good heavens! not dressed yet! My God! you’ll be late.’
‘Late for what?’ asked Kate in astonishment.
‘Didn’t Mr. Lennox tell you that you had to sing my song, the market-woman’s song, in the first act?’
‘No, I heard nothing of it.’
‘Then for goodness’ sake make haste. Here, stick your face out. I’ll do your make-up while the dresser laces you. But you’ll be able to manage the song, won’t you? It’s quite impossible for me to get dressed in time. I can’t understand Mr. Lennox not having told you.’
‘Oh yes, I shall be able to get through it–at least I hope so,’ Kate answered, trembling with the sudden excitement of the news. ‘I think I know all the words except the encore verse.’
‘Oh, you won’t need that,’ said Beaumont, betrayed by a twinge of professional jealousy. ‘Now turn the other cheek. By Jove! we’ve no time to lose; they’re just finishing the wedding chorus. If you’re late it won’t be my fault. I sent down word to the theatre to ask if you’d sing my song in the first act, as I had some friends coming down from London to see me. You know the Marquis of Shoreham–has been a friend of mine for years. That’ll do for the left eye.’
‘If you put out your leg a little further I’ll pull your stocking, and then you’ll be all right,’ said the dresser, and just staying a moment to pull up her garters in a sort of nervous trance, she rushed on to the stage, followed into the wings by Beaumont, who had come to hear how the song would go.
She was a complete success, and got a double encore from an enthusiastic pit. But in _Madame Favart_ she had nothing to do, and wearied waiting in the chorus for another chance which never came, for after her success with the fish-wife’s song in _Madame Angot_, Beaumont took good care not to give her another chance. What was to be done? Dick said he couldn’t sack the principals.
‘Kate could play Serpolette as it was never played before,’ exclaimed Montgomery, ‘and I see no reason why she shouldn’t understudy Leslie.’
‘But What’s-her-name is understudying it.’
‘Why shouldn’t there be two understudies?’
Dick could advance no reason, and once begun, the studies proceeded gaily. Apparently deeply interested, Dick lay back in the armchair smoking perpetual cigarettes. Montgomery hammered with nervous vigour at the piano, and Kate stood by his side, her soul burning in the ardours of her task. She would have preferred the part of Germaine; it would have better suited her gentle mind than the frisky Serpolette; but it seemed vain to hope for illness or any accident that would prevent Beaumont from playing. True, Leslie was often imprudent, and praying for a bronchial visitation they watched at night to see how she was wrapped up.
As soon as Kate knew the music, a rehearsal was called for her to go through the business, and it was then that the long-smouldering indignation broke out against her. In the first place the girl who till now had been entrusted with the understudy, and had likewise lived in the hopes of coughs and colds, burst into floods of passionate tears and storms of violent words. She attacked Kate vigorously, and the scene was doubly unpleasant, as it took place in the presence of everybody. Bitter references were made to dying and deserted husbands, and all the acridness of the chorus-girl was squeezed into allusions anent the Divorce Court. This was as disagreeable for Dick as for Kate. The rehearsal had to be dismissed, and the lady in question was sent back to London. Sympathy at first ran very strongly on the side of the weak, and the ladies of the theatre were united in their efforts to make it as disagreeable as possible for Kate. But she bore up courageously, and after a time her continual refusal to rehearse the part again won a reaction in her favour; and when Miss Leslie’s cold began to grow worse, and it became clear that someone must understudy Serpolette, the part fell without opposition to her share.
And now every minute of the day was given to learning or thinking out in her inner consciousness some portion of her part. In the middle of her breakfast she would hurriedly lay down her cup with a clink in the saucer and say, ‘Look here, Dick; tell me how I’m to do that run in–my first entrance, you know.’
‘What are your words, dear?’
‘”Who speaks ill of Serpolette?”‘
The breakfast-table would then be pushed out of the way and the entrance rehearsed. Dick seemed never to weary, and the run was practised over and over again. Coming home from the theatre at night, it was always a question of this effect and that effect; of whether Leslie might not have scored a point if she had accentuated the lifting of her skirt in the famous song.
That was, as Dick declared, the ‘number of grip’; and often, at two o’clock in the morning, just as she was getting into bed, Kate, in her chemise, would begin to sing:
‘”Look at me here! look at me there! Criticize me everywhere!
From head to feet I am most sweet, And most perfect and complete.”‘
There was a scene in the first act in which Serpolette had to run screaming with laughter away from her cross old uncle, Gaspard, and dodge him, hiding behind the Baillie, and to do this effectively required a certain _chic_, a gaiety, which Kate did not seem able to summon up; and this was the weak place in her rendering of the part. ‘You’re all right for a minute, and then you sober down into a Germaine,’ Dick would say, at the end of a long and critical conversation. The business she learned to ‘parrot.’ Dick taught her the gestures and the intonations of voice to be used, and when she had mastered these Dick said he would back her to go through the part quite as well as Leslie.
Leslie! The word was now constantly in their minds. Would her cold get worse or better? was the question discussed most frequently between Dick, Kate, and Montgomery. Sometimes it was better, sometimes worse; but at the moment of their greatest despondency the welcome news came that she had slipped downstairs and sprained her foot badly.
‘Oh, the poor thing!’ said Kate; ‘I’m so sorry. Had I known that was—-‘
‘Was going to happen you wouldn’t have learnt the part,’ exclaimed Montgomery, with his loud, vacant laugh.
She beat her foot impatiently on the ground, and after a long silence she said, ‘I shall go and see her.’
‘You’d much better run through your music with Montgomery, and don’t forget to see the dresser about your dress. And, for God’s sake, do try and put a bit of gaiety into the part. Serpolette is a bit of a romp, you know.’
‘Try to put a bit of gaiety into the part,’ rang in Kate’s ears unceasingly. It haunted her as she took in the waist of Leslie’s dress, while she leaned over Montgomery’s shoulder at the piano or listened to his conversation. He was enthusiastic, and she thought it very pretty of him to say, ‘I’m glad to have had a share in your first success. No one ever forgets that–that’s sure to be remembered.’
It was the nearest thing to a profession of love he had ever made, but she was preoccupied with other thoughts, and had to send him away for a last time to study the dialogue before the glass.
‘Try to put a little gaiety into the part. Serpolette is a romp, you know.’
‘Yes, a romp; but what is a romp?’ Kate asked herself; and she strove to realize in detail that which she had accepted till now in outline.
XVI
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr. Hayes, who had been pushed, much against his will, before the curtain of the Theatre Royal, Bristol, to make the following statement, ‘I’m sorry to inform you that in consequence of indisposition–that is to say, the accidental spraining of her ankle–Miss Leslie will not be able to appear to-night. Your kind indulgence is therefore requested for Miss D’Arcy, who has, on the shortest notice, consented to play the part of Serpolette.’
‘Did yer ever ‘ear of anyone spraining an ankle on purpose?’ asked a scene-shifter.
‘Hush!’ said the gas-man, ‘he’ll ‘ear you.’
Amid murmurs of applause, Mr. Hayes backed into the wings.
‘Well, was it all right?’ he asked Dick.
‘Right, my boy, I should think it was; there was a touch of Gladstone in your accidentally sprained ankle.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the discomfited acting manager.
‘I haven’t time to tell you now. Now then, girls, are you ready?’ he said, rushing on to the stage and hurriedly changing the places of the choristers. Putting his hand on a girl’s shoulder, he moved her to the right or left as his taste dictated. Then retiring abruptly, he cried, ‘Now then, up you go!’ and immediately after thirty voices in one sonority sang:
‘”In Corneville’s wide market-pla-a-ces, Sweet servant-girls, with rosy fa-a-ces, Wait here, wait here.”‘
‘Now, then, come on. You make your entrance from the top left.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever be able to do that run in.’
‘Don’t begin to think about anything. If you don’t like the run, I’ll tell you how to do it,’ said Dick, his face lighting up with a sudden inspiration; ‘do it with a cheeky swagger, walking very slowly, like this; and then when you get quarter of the way down the stage, stop for a moment and sing, “Who speaks ill of Serpolette?” Do you see?’
‘Yes, yes, that will suit me better; I understand.’
Then standing under the sloping wing, they both listened anxiously for the cue.
‘She loves Grenicheux.’
‘There’s your cue. On you go; give me your shawl.’
The footlights dazzled her; a burst of applause rather frightened than reassured her, and a prey to a sort of dull dream, she sang her first lines. But she was a little behind the beat. Montgomery brought down his stick furiously, the _repliques_ of the girls buffeted her ears like palms of hands, and it was not until she was halfway through the gossiping couplets, and saw Montgomery’s arm swing peacefully to and fro over the bent profiles of the musicians that she fairly recovered her presence of mind. Then came the little scene in which she runs away from her uncle Gaspard and hides behind the Baillie. And she dodged the old man with such sprightliness from one side of the stage to the other that a murmur of admiration floated over the pit, and, arising in echoes, was prolonged almost until she stepped down to the footlights to sing the legend of Serpolette.
The quaintly tripping cadences of the tune and the humour of the words, which demanded to be rather said than sung, were rendered to perfection. It was impossible not to like her when she said:
‘”I know not much of my relations,
I never saw my mother’s face;
And of preceding generations
I never found a single trace.
‘”I may have fallen from the sky,
Or blossomed in a rosebud sweet; But all I know is this, that I
Was found by Gaspard in his wheat.”‘
A smile of delight filled the theatre, and Kate felt the chilling sense of separation which exists between the public and a debutante being gradually filled in by a delicious but almost incomprehensible notion of contact–a sensation more delicate than the touch of a lover’s breath on your face. This reached a climax when she sang the third verse, and had not etiquette forbade, she would have had an encore for it alone.
‘”I often think that perhaps I may
The heiress to a kingdom be,
But as I wore no clothes that day I brought no papers out with me.”‘
These words, that had often seemed coarse in Leslie’s mouth, in Kate’s seemed adorably simple. So winning was the smile and so coquettishly conscious did she seem of the compromising nature of the statement she was making, that the entire theatre was actuated by the impulse of one thought: Oh! what a little dear you must have been lying in the wheat-field! The personality of the actress disappeared in the rosy thighs and chubby arms of the foundling, and notwithstanding the length of the song, she had to sing it twice over. Then there was an exit for her, and she rushed into the wings. Several of the girls spoke to her, but it was impossible for her to reply to them. Everything swam in and out of sight like shapes in a mist, and she could only distinguish the burly form of her lover. He wrapped a shawl about her, and a murmur of amiable words followed her, and, with her thoughts fizzing like champagne, she tried to listen to his praises.
Then followed moments in which she anxiously waited for her cues. She was nervously afraid of missing her entrance, and she dreaded spoiling her success by some mistake. But it was not until the end of the act when she stepped out of the crowd of servant-girls to sing the famous coquetting song that she reached the summit of her triumph.
Kate was about the medium height, a shade over five feet five. When she swung her little dress as she strutted on the stage she reminded you immediately of a pigeon. In her apparent thinness from time to time was revealed a surprising plumpness.
For instance, her bosom, in a walking dress no more than an indication, in a low body assumed the roundness of a bird’s, and the white lines of her falling shoulders floated in long undulations into the blue masses of her hair. The nervous sensibility of her profession had awakened her face, and now the brown eyes laughed with the spiritual maliciousness with which we willingly endow the features of a good fairy. The hips were womanly, the ankle was only a touch of stocking, and the whole house rose to a man and roared when coquettishly lifting the skirt, she sang:
‘”Look at me here! look at me there! Criticize me everywhere!
From head to feet I am most sweet, And most perfect and complete.”‘
The audience, principally composed of sailors–men home from months of watery weariness, nights of toil and darkness, maddened by the irritating charm of the music and the delicious modernity of Kate’s figure and dress, looked as if they were going to precipitate themselves from the galleries. Was she not the living reality of the figures posted over the hammocks in oil-smelling cabins, the prototype of the short-skirted damsels that decorated the empty match-boxes which they preserved and gazed at under the light of the stars?
Her success was enormous, and she was forced to sing
‘Look at me here!’
five times before her friends would allow the piece to proceed. At the end of the act she received an ovation. Two reporters of the local newspapers obtained permission to come behind to see her. London engagements were spoken of, and in the general enthusiasm someone talked about grand opera. Even her fellow artists forgot their jealousies, and in the nervous excitement of the moment complimented her highly. Beaumont, anxious to kick down her rival, declared, ‘That, to say the least of it, it was a better rendering of the part than Leslie’s.’ And on hearing this, Bret, whose forte was not repartee, moved away; Mortimer, in his least artificial manner, said that it was not bad for a beginning and that she’d get on if she worked at it. Dubois strutted and spoke learnedly of how the part had been played in France, and he was pleased to trace by an analysis which was difficult to follow a resemblance between Kate and Madame Judic.
The second act went equally well. And after seeing the ghosts she got a bouquet thrown to her, so cheekily did she sing the refrain:
‘For a regiment of soldiers wouldn’t make me afraid.’
She had therefore now only to maintain her prestige to the end, and when she had got her encore for the cider song, and had been recalled before the curtain at the end of the third act, with unstrung nerves she wandered to her dressing-room, thinking of what Dick would say when they got home. But the pleasures of the evening were not over yet: there was the supper, and as she came down from her dressing-room she whispered to Montgomery in the wings that they hoped to see him at their place later on. He thanked her and said he would be very glad to come in a little later on, but he had some music to copy now and must away, and feeling a little disappointed that he had to leave she walked up and down the rough boards, stepping out of the way of the scene-shifters. ‘By your leave, ma’am,’ they cried, going by her with the long swinging wings. She was glad now that Montgomery had left her, for alone she could relive distinctly every moment of the performance.
As the chorus-girls crossed the stage they stopped to compliment her with a few mechanical words and a hard smile. Kate thanked them and returned to her dream all aglow and absorbed in remembrances of her success. The word