Part 11

Then as if the unhappy affair of Lord Duckingfield was not enough, there was the perennial question of Mr. Montagu Jupp. Why he had not denounced her already, heaven alone could tell!

The Deputy was far from suspecting the simple truth that it had not yet begun to dawn upon Montagu that this was not the lady he had met. Having drawn the long bow so freely himself he was not able to criticize her closely; his own impression of the youngest girl of “old man Carabbas” was decidedly vague. Still it was to be supposed that a whole day devoted to the ill-starred “Lady of Laxton” would have done much to enlighten him. As a matter of fact it did not. For Girlie, at the nadir of her fortunes, was now inspired with the courage of despair. Moved to a strange recklessness by the sheer weight of her woes, she rose beyond the level of herself.

This unexpected result was due in part, no doubt, to Mr. Montagu Jupp. That gentleman certainly knew his business. And at rehearsals he had a way with him. Not only had he the art of smoothing tempers and generally “oiling the wheels,” but the secret was his also of evolving order out of chaos. The incompetence of Sir Toby and the insubordination of several members of the cast had produced such a hopeless tangle in the improvised theater in the east wing of the house that for the time being even the inefficiency of the leading lady had been overshadowed. But as soon as Montagu set his hand to the plow “The Lady of Laxton” took a decided turn for the better.

Very well that it was so. There were but three days now to the performance in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering, and by all the portents “the most dismal fiasco of modern times,” in the gloomy and mordant words of Garden was in prospect. But Montagu was no common man. He had a faculty for “sizing things up,” moreover he knew how to get them done. Privately he was of opinion that Sir Toby’s masterpiece beat all records in the way of sheer ineptitude, but wild horses would not have dragged it out of him. Besides he had been too long and too intimately associated with the English theater in all its aspects to let a little matter of that kind upset him. None knew better than he what could be really achieved in the way of human imbecility. And after all, as Montagu argued with himself, the players were but a scratch company of extremely amateurish amateurs, while the audience at the best he described as “C3 Provincial.”

Girlie was not a “quick study,” but she was an extremely conscientious one. Long hours of application had made her absolutely word perfect in her part. And there indeed she had a decided “pull” over the others. Not one made the least pretence of being word perfect; several of them could hardly be said to have looked at their lines. For instance, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was a particularly flagrant offender; but one and all were animated by a robust conviction that “they would be all right on the night”--in this case on Tuesday afternoon.

By comparison with these temper-trying people, Girlie shone. She really did know her words, and although her manner of delivering them left much to be desired, she was docile, intelligent, almost painfully anxious to learn, so that on a first acquaintance and superficially regarded, Mr. Jupp was inclined to consider her “the pick of the lot.” But as he confided to Garden, over a pre-luncheon cocktail, “She was not exactly a Siddons.”

In truth, however, Mr. Jupp, although he was far from guessing the fact, had already exercised a kind of hypnotic influence upon the leading lady. His natural gift “of bringing out the best in people” had had an even greater effect upon Girlie than upon the less impressionable members of the cast. Unconsciously she had at once responded to the magnetic influence of this king among “producers.” And yet the process may not have been wholly unconscious after all.

The poor Deputy was at the end of her tether. Not knowing which way to turn, not knowing what to do, convinced that at any moment the fate she so richly deserved must overtake her, she threw in all her reserves. She abandoned herself entirely to the business of the hour. Not daring to look before or after, she was like one under sentence of death. Before being cast forever into outer darkness, her courage seemed to make one last spasmodic flare.

In the course of that day there were two long rehearsals. But Girlie threw so much spirit into her acting and she was on such terms with the words of a diffuse and thankless part, that for the time being her tragic inefficiency was veiled. By comparison with the casual, imperceptive, bored people whose duty it was to play up to her, the leading lady actually shone.

“Yes, old bye--the best of the bunch,” Montagu confided to the incredulous Garden over a well-earned whisky and soda during an interval for tea. “Not saying much of course. She can’t act for sour apples but she does _try_.”

“But, my son”--Garden the incredulous, to whom sooner or later all secrets were revealed, knew only too well the weakness of his man--“that ass over there said that you said this little filly could play all the ingénues off the West End stage.”

“Did I?” Mr. Jupp spoke with the innocence of a rather large size in cherubs, whom he so much resembled.

“You did.”

“Well, old bye,” Montagu fondled a pendulous chin, “one says so many damn silly things in the course of a lifetime, doesn’t one?”

Garden was fain to admit that it might be so, but of all the foolishness ever perpetrated Montagu Jupp’s original dictum upon Lady Elfreda’s acting was “the terminus.”

All the same, to the general astonishment, including that of Sir Toby that hardened optimist, by the end of a long and strenuous day the stock of Lady Elfreda was showing a decided tendency to rise. Those who had worked with the leading lady at her worst, and a pretty hopeless worst it had seemed, could not understand the change. They resented the excellence of her memory--she actually knew all her stupid words by heart!--yet beyond everything else they resented the new air of intelligence that had come upon her.

The spirit and the interest she had been able to display in response to the demands of Mr. Montagu Jupp told heavily against her now. The others bitterly recalled her long week of silence, of indifference to her fellow guests, of her strange ignorance of every subject on which their tongues had run. They were now forced to conclude that all this had been a pose. It was a new form of “side.” Moreover it was a form so subtle that it was very difficult to meet. Lady Elfreda’s pretense of not knowing anything about anything was pure affectation in the eyes of those whose aim in life was to know everything about everything and not be ashamed of saying so. And they would not be able to forgive it. It was a subtle way of “scoring them off.”

“Sidey little cat, I hate her,” thus Mrs. Spencer-Jobling in the depths of her heart. “Anyway, on Tuesday, with a bit of luck, I think I ought to be able to kill her big scene in the third act.”

A mad world! As soon as Lady Elfreda began to show signs of leading her comrades out of the slough of despond in which for a whole week they had been engulfed, her unpopularity crystallized into virile personal dislike. Henceforward, among the ladies of the house party at any rate, she was never mentioned by name; she was always referred to as the S. L. C.

XXV

HAD Girlie’s state of mind allowed her to enjoy a sense of triumph, she might have fittingly indulged it when dinner time approached. She had been through a most severe ordeal and had emerged with flying colors. Really, she had “kept up her end” splendidly. How she had contrived to do so was more than she could say; a latent genius must have taken possession of her; but Mr. Montagu Jupp, that terrible Old Man of the Sea whose arrival she had dreaded beyond all things, whose mere appearance upon the scene was to prove the last straw, had congratulated her personally, if not exactly upon her acting, upon her knowledge of her part. Moreover, she still lived. Mr. Jupp, for some inexplicable reason, had not given her away. He had addressed her several times as “Lady Elfreda” without a hint of _arriére pensée_, and in all good faith. And the praises of this remarkable man had added so much to her prestige, that she was quite sure that Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and the other ladies were now furiously jealous.

Mr. Jupp’s attitude was so incomprehensible and her own success so great a surprise to herself, that in spite of everything she had a secret satisfaction when she came to dress for dinner. But that emotion was brief. Hardly had the Deputy submitted herself to the hands of Pikey when she learnt that the maid was in a towering passion.

“What do you think?”--Grab!--“Me of all people”--Twist!--“I’ve a mind to have the law of ’em”--Shake!--“So I have”--Shake!

Thus the prelude. And the aria to follow was quite as impressive.

It seemed that Mrs. Pike having been duly informed that a diamond and sapphire ring was missing and that the master of the house, although not knowing whom to suspect, was consulting the police, had had the singular ill-fortune to overhear two of the servants discussing the matter. And in the course of the conversation one of them had said “that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if that old Marchioness had taken it. Anyhow, she was quite sure that the Marchioness was not quite right in her head.”

For several hours poor Pikey had brooded savagely upon the implication. It was the deepest insult--second-hand though it was--that she had ever received. She hardly knew how to bear it. Even now, as she prepared a bath for the Deputy, she was not at all sure that she would not lodge a complaint with the mistress of the house.

Such a reminder of the perils all around dashed Girlie at once. The new sense of elation was nipped before it had time to bloom. This unlucky disappearance of the pearl necklace added very dark tints to the picture, for when the inevitable exposure occurred it was in the nature of things that suspicion would fall upon herself. Even as it was Pikey was so incensed by what she had heard that she was quite likely to court disaster by making a fuss.

After a bath which was less enjoyable than it might have been, Girlie did her best to combat this half-formed resolution of the maid. Before doing so, however, she gently but firmly took charge of the hairbrushes and insisted upon applying them personally to her own scalp. It needed courage, but it called for even greater courage to allow Pikey to do her office in her present savage mood.

A hairbrush in each hand, the Deputy begged the Werewolf not to stir up strife unnecessarily. But somehow the appeal did but minister to Pikey’s wrath.

“Yes, I’ll tell the mistress of the house.” The Werewolf bared her fangs.

“If you do,” said the miserable Deputy, “everything may come out.”

“I hope it does. I’m sick and tired of this.”

“But if it does come out, they are certain to suspect me and I may have to go to prison.”

It was the falsest of all false moves. Girlie realized the fact almost as soon as it was made. But this cruel situation was always driving her too hard.

“So much the better if you do have to go to prison.” Pikey’s words were scornful and deliberate. “I hope you will, I’m sure.”

The callous speech took away Girlie’s breath. But for the moment only. In the next she had unconsciously proved that she was not the Girlie of a week ago. “If you give me away”--the thin, high-pitched voice quivered ominously--“and I do have to go to prison, I’ll take good care, Mrs. Pike, that you come, too.”

The words gave pause to Mrs. Pike.

“They can’t touch me--not the police can’t,” she said after a brief period of reflection. “I am not pretending to be her ladyship. I am not pretending to be any one.”

“No, you’re not,” said Girlie. “But”--inspired by the bizarre knowledge that may lurk in an out-of-the-way corner of the brain of a solicitor’s daughter--“you are an accessory after the fact, please don’t forget that.”

The chance shot went home. Pikey was reduced to savage mumblings. For the time being, at least, she had met with her quietus.

XXVI

WHEN Girlie went down to dinner she was sustained by a subtle feeling of inward power. For the first time in her life she was upheld by perhaps the most desirable of all human emotions. As she entered the drawing room she caught the eye of Mr. Montagu Jupp. And, miracle of miracles, it was an approving eye. There was no doubt about that, since Girlie belonged to the sex that does not make mistakes in those little matters!

Yes, it was an approving eye. In the sight of Montagu and his peers, when the little Catkin lady came into the room timidly, with that rather hunted-fawn-look in her gray eyes, with the slight flush in her cheeks that went so well with the smart pink frock and the twist of ribbon in her fluffy fair hair, she really was a pretty little Puss. No wonder, thought the critics, that the worthy Duckingfield was up against his fate.

His prolonged tête-a-tête the previous evening in the alcove under the hall stairs had not passed without notice. In fact, it had been commented upon very freely. And while from the demeanor of my lord it was by no means clear that his suit was prospering, his “dash” was rather admired. That is to say, it was rather admired by the members of his own sex, who are always apt to cherish that quality, particularly in one of their middle-aged representatives. As far as the ladies were concerned, however, they could see absolutely nothing in the little noodle and they would not allow “that she was even pretty.” Still the episode itself, the look of my lord and the flush on the face of the S. L. C. lent a touch of romance to the evening. And romance is an elusive thing that is always welcome, even when furnished by the lives of other people.

Dinner was almost hilarious. All agreed that the great Montagu was beginning to do wonders already. He had even contrived in his magnetic way to draw a few sparks out of Lady Elfreda. This evening she was like a new person. She was a thing of wreathed smiles, of spasmodic giggles, and there could be no doubt that her acting was improving. But it was Montagu himself who was the key. He had his jest with everybody. No one was safe from his chaff. He took upon himself the rôle of the whimsical father of a comically stupid family. No one resented his humor although neither age nor sex was spared. He disparaged the food and the wine, he complained that his hostess was getting fat, he objected to the way in which Mrs. Spencer-Jobling did her hair. Everybody was sent into fits of laughter by his knack of saying the things that are not said; but the audacious art with which he masked their grim and sometimes brutal candor left him perfect master of the field.

The amazing Montagu, to the delight of the others, even went to the length of asking Lord Duckingfield “whether he had written yet to papa?” It was vain for the stolid Midlander to assume an air of childlike innocence. The table rocked with a laughter whose volume seemed to imperil the wine glasses and the crockery, when my lord was told that he had better make haste and do so “or that little Perisher will get there before you,” the statement being punctuated by an accusing finger in the direction of Sir Toby.

The revels of the evening, of which a lively meal was the prelude, were not perhaps the fine flowers of taste, but that they were greatly enjoyed by all concerned there could be no doubt. If exceptions there were to the rule they were furnished by the Deputy and Lord Duckingfield. Yet Lady Elfreda’s suitor was too much a man of the world to mind particularly; he may even have been rather flattered than otherwise to find himself so famous; while, as for Girlie, having been through so much and having so much more to go through, she feasted and laughed bravely, so that when the time came to retire to the drawing room with the other ladies she felt that she simply didn’t care what happened.

All the same, a brief withdrawal from the sphere of influence of Mr. Montagu Jupp convinced the Deputy that her fit of abandon was but temporary. Defenseless in the drawing room, at the tender mercies of her own sex, fear soon laid an icy finger upon her. So resolutely did the other ladies give her the cold shoulder--even the hostess who had been so kind appeared for some reason no longer her friend--that horrible doubts flooded back into her mind. How much did they know? What had they guessed? Suddenly Mrs. Spencer-Jobling made a sinister reference to clever thieves who got into smart houses and how they sometimes flaunted a title for the purpose, whereupon the well-informed Mrs. Conrad Jones cited the case of an adventurous lady from a hat shop who was able to steal diamonds by passing herself off as the daughter of a peer and thereby earned seven years penal servitude.

Icy fingers ran along the spine of the Deputy. Here was the writing on the wall. The half exultant tones of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones seemed to leave no margin of hope. Surely they must know everything! The coffee cup began to shake in Girlie’s hand. Even the tall footman eyed her disdainfully. Only a remarkable effort of the will saved her from dropping the milk jug.

After a terrible twenty minutes, in which however nothing happened, the men came in, and as usual they brought with them an immediate change of atmosphere. Their geniality again banished for the time being the awful specter that stalked ever in the background of Girlie’s mind. She laughed hysterically as Mr. Jupp cakewalked to the piano and proceeded, by request, to give his famous imitation of a hen laying an egg with musical accompaniment. He then rolled back his cuffs and struck a series of dominant chords. “Now, ladies and gemmen.” It was an exact imitation of “Pony” Moore, the prince of Christy minstrels. “Set to partners, please. Now, my lord--her ladyship is ready for you. And I’ve asked the butler to have a curtain drawn across the alcove in the hall, so you may treat it as a private box.”

Shrieks of approval greeted this sally. Girlie’s mingled with them, although she was ready to sink through the floor. She dare not look in the direction of Lord Duckingfield, but that robust gentleman was made of sterner stuff. There was a light in his eye which informed Mr. Montagu Jupp that any other man in England would have incurred a punch on the nose. Montagu, however, a licensed jester who turned the most sacred things to mirth and ribaldry with none to gainsay him, continued to bang the piano, and Lord Duckingfield with the air of the very good fellow he undoubtedly was, turned to Lady Elfreda, bowed and gallantly offered his arm.

The history of the previous evening repeated itself. If possible, the proceedings were a little more riotous. Mr. Jupp continued to wave his magic wand and he had only to do that for mirth and harmony to prevail. Who could withstand his abounding spirits, his joy in life, his Gargantuan humor? He was a great natural force, he filled the bill, the general effect of him was overwhelming, irresistible.

After a few minutes of discreet maneuvering upon the hall floor, Girlie’s partner, to her intense dismay, steered boldly for the alcove beneath the stairs. There was no false shame about Lord Duckingfield. Too many battles had he fought and won to permit a little crude badinage to turn him from a fixed purpose. He was in deadly earnest, whether the others guessed it or not; and in any case they didn’t matter. His mind was made up. If this little girl would marry him she would make him a very proud and happy man.

“Well?” he said, as he sank into a chair by her side.

How nice he was! That was the thought that passed through Girlie’s mind as his honest eyes came slowly to the level of hers. She was in a state of excitement akin to hysteria, but even at that moment his worth and his kindness dominated her.

Far as she was in the mire she was not quite lost even now to a sense of shame. As she felt his eyes upon her she realized that this was the time to tell him all. She must not count the cost. He was far too good to be played with so cruelly. Besides, she owed it to herself, to her ignoble self, to make what reparation she could. Let it be made while there was still an opportunity.

For his own part he was baffled by her odd constraint. There was something on her mind. He could only guess at what it was. But he was ready to put his fortune to the proof.

“I am sure I could make you happy.” His hand touched hers, but she had the wit to keep her eyes from his.

Had she not known before, she knew then that it was in his power to bring her happiness. And it was just that fact which seemed to catch her by the heel as she was about to fling herself over the precipice.

If she did her plain duty and confessed everything, and heaven knew that she was trying now to school her tongue to the task, it would be at a terrible cost. And, face to face with this necessity, she felt she simply could not pay the price. She would be bound to lose him. And she liked this man so much that she could not muster the force of will, at any rate just then, wantonly to put herself out of court altogether.

Such a failure was illogical, but human weakness is generally that. She knew perfectly well that whatever happened this man could never be hers. He was altogether beyond and above her and her circumstances. It would make no difference really if he learned the truth from her lips to-night, or if he learned it a few days hence by the logic of events.

She saw her duty now a dead sure thing. But she had not the power of will to do it, not to-night at least. She heard the odd change in his voice as her silence began to hurt him; even if she could not actually see the eyes of anxiety and bewilderment with which he looked at her, she knew what his feelings were.

For himself he was puzzled, baffled, disconcerted. He was sure that Lady Elfreda liked him. Her shyness, her blushes, her charming hesitations told him that. What was it then that held her back? Why could she not give a straightforward answer to a plain question? There could be but one explanation. It was one he was loth to accept, yet being the kind of man he was, he knew how to do so.

“You don’t think I’m good enough.” The pressure of a decidedly masculine hand tightened upon her fingers. “Well, my dear, I don’t blame you. I am what I am.” He sighed heavily. “And you are what you are. All the same, I think I could have made you happy.”

Quick tears sprang to Girlie’s eyes. The problem for her now was not to let him see them. But this, alas, was beyond her present resources. Her tears were not to be concealed. Lord Duckingfield permitted himself a whimsical sigh. She was a little fool. And at that moment it called for a good deal of self-control not to tell her so.

XVII

IN the schoolroom at The Laurels that evening, Miss Cass was condemned to a lonely and unappetizing meal. Banished in disgrace from the dinner table, debarred the drawing room and its social joys, “sent to Coventry” because of her own wickedness, she had only hard thoughts and the meager fare of war upon which to subsist.

To-night meat had given out at The Laurels, as it so often did in the present time of famine, and Miss Cass had to be content with overboiled codfish and an insipid sauce, followed by tapioca pudding. Elfreda’s general dislike of her surroundings had not been made less when she had found tapioca pudding to be a standing dish in The Laurels nursery, just as under the régime of Pikey at Castle Carabbas it had enjoyed similar preëminence. Moreover, it was of the true consistency, thick, slabby and odious, in every way a worthy rival of that which Elfreda and her sisters had fondly believed to be without a peer in any human household.