Part 13

By that time, it was fully realized “behind” that they were “for it.” The brief opening scene between a couple of comic servants, although calling for liberal prompts from the indefatigable Mr. Jupp, really passed off very well; but its defect was, as the candid critic of the _Dramatic Pictorial_ was not slow to inform the author, it didn’t last long enough. The action of the play really began with the entrance of Sir Toby himself and with it began the trouble. The little baronet, of course, had cast himself for the part of the hero; it was only human that he should do so, but nature having endowed him with very few inches, a voice so loud as to verge upon the uncanny and an aggressiveness of manner which a certain amount of stage nervousness served rather cruelly to accentuate, those skilled in the signs began to fear the worst, even before the worst had happened.

When the time came for the entrance of Lady Elfreda it was painfully realized, not by her fellow players merely, but by their friends in front, that upon her frail shoulders the whole weight of the play would rest. Unfortunately the house was not composed exclusively of the polite public of the stalls; a less polite, a more general public was herded in other parts of the building. There was a liberal sprinkling of outspoken warriors in khaki and hospital blue. From the beginning they had been inclined “to guy” Sir Toby.

It was a terribly anxious moment when the heroine came on. All felt her entrance to be the crux of the play. According to the dramatist’s instructions she had to greet Lord Longacre rapturously as an old and dear friend. But even Mr. Montagu Jupp had doubts as to whether the leading lady would be able to achieve rapture. Had that man of infinite wisdom but known it, the problem for poor Girlie was whether the leading lady would be able to come on at all.

By the time an expert, who had come from London for the purpose, had duly painted her face and penciled her eyebrows and the call boy had announced that the curtain was up, she had to muster the courage to enter the wings and await her “cue.” She never knew how she was able to accomplish this. In point of fact she was in such a state of nerves that it was only the personal intervention of Mr. Jupp which saved her from coming upon the scene a full two minutes too soon.

When at last she did come on, partly by her own volition and partly propelled by Mr. Jupp, she was received with a special round of applause. It was thoroughly well meant, because everyone in the house understood how much depended upon her, and there is nothing like encouragement. But, alas, as far as Girlie was concerned, the effect of that round of applause was paralyzing. Somehow it seemed to complete the grisly process of her undoing.

Standing stock still and looking ready to faint, not a word crossed her lips. Sir Toby, however, in response to instructions, whispered sternly from the wings, crossed the stage heroically and grasped her by the hand. Another long moment of petrified silence followed and then he led her to a chair. Girlie, hardly conscious that the eyes of a bewildered and resentful audience were fixed upon her, sank down overcome by guilt, terror and exhaustion.

XXIX

TO draw a veil over the first act of the “Lady of Laxton” is the part of mercy. Speaking out of a long and therefore chequered theatrical experience, Messrs. Garden and Montagu Jupp quite agreed with one another that it was absolutely unique. They had never witnessed anything like it. From first to last not a word of Lady Elfreda’s performance was audible, a fact which threw into uncanny relief Sir Toby Philpot’s robust interpretation of the _beau rôle_. The best friend of the worst enemy of the little man had never accused him of being inaudible on any occasion. And now feeling the entire fortunes of the play rested wholly upon himself, he gave rein to his amazing vocal powers. Thus the joint efforts of the hero and the heroine achieved a result never likely to be forgotten by those who were present.

At first the audience did its best to bear up. The polite public in the stalls sat silent and motionless, but it soon became clear that the less polite public in other parts of the house was not going to behave with equal fortitude. Ominous coughs began to arise. A wag in hospital blue at the back requested Cuthbert to give the girl a chance. Catcalls followed. Then came boos, cheers and counter cheers. Finally the curtain descended with a remarkable abruptness which, however, was a real relief to everybody.

Girlie returned to the improvised green room in a state of collapse. Suddenly her overdriven nerves gave way. To the consternation of the other members of the cast, whose cup was already full, she uttered a kind of howl and broke into hysterical weeping. No one had power to pacify her. For once even the art and the tact of Mr. Montagu Jupp were at fault. Pikey, grim and reluctant, was summoned from the audience, but the appearance of the maid upon the scene seemed to increase, if anything, the leading lady’s distress.

It was clear, of course, that the play was at an end. At least, it was clear to all except the author of the piece. Even now, in spite of all that had happened, the valiant Sir Toby declined to admit defeat. He boldly proposed to carry on. In the second act Lady Elfreda’s part could be read by Mrs. Minever.

“Be sugared to that, my boy,” said Mr. Montagu Jupp.

Even now, in spite of a series of suppressed sobs from the green room sofa, the still undefeated Sir Toby showed signs of a fight. But the firmness of Montagu’s veto verged upon brutal candor. “They’ll never stand another act of you, my son,” said the great man in a Napoleonic aside.

“Let alone of your so-called play,” said the equally candid Garden. “Don’t you recognize ‘the bird’ when you hear it, you little ass?”

“’Twas Lady Elfreda let the whole thing down,” the little man persisted.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, my boy,” said the genial Montagu. “But I think myself, if we are going to carry on, that piano yonder had better be moved on to the stage and if they’ll stand for it I’ll give them a few selections from my refined musical entertainment.”

“The very thing, Juppy.” Garden laughed and then he winked at various members of the company. But it was seen at once that the great man, inimitable in resource, had found a possible way out.

All the same, there was one exception to the general chorus of approval. The author of the “Lady of Laxton” lifted up his voice in a loud wail of protest. “But the second act is mag-nif-i-cent, simply mag-nif-i-cent.”

“Even if it’s as good as ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ it will not be played, my son,” said Garden with grim finality. “Not on this occasion.”

While the yellow chrysanthemum lady did her best to calm Lady Elfreda’s shattered nerves, the grand piano was trundled forth into the middle of the proscenium, the curtain went up, and notwithstanding incipient boos and catcalls from the obscurer parts of the house, Mr. Jupp announced that owing to the sudden indisposition of Lady Elfreda Catkin, the remainder of the program would take the form of a refined musical entertainment. Thereupon the great man, beaming with good humor, sat down at the piano, struck a chord, slewed round on the piano stool to face the already much relieved audience, and said, “Ladies and gemmen, the first item on the program is that old but touching ballad, ‘Down Went Maginty to the Bottom of the Sea.’”

Corney Grain himself could hardly have bettered Montagu’s performance. The effect was magical, not merely upon the turbulent spirits at the back of the hall, but also upon the more patient sufferers in the more expensive seats. Not only did Montagu render the ditty in an inimitable manner, but he also induced the warriors in khaki and hospital blue to join in the chorus.

As a matter of fact very little in the way of inducement was needed. The lines:

I feel sure he must be wet, For they haven’t found him yet.

were given with enormous gusto.

The change which came over the audience was quite remarkable. In the reaction from the boredom of the first act of Sir Toby’s comedy, “the house” began to bubble with enthusiasm. The broad human appeal of Mr. Jupp was irresistible. “Down Went Maginty” was so rapturously received that he had no compunction about following with “Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” which went equally well and “I Fear No Foe in Swan Pyjamas.” In fact, “the old Pony Moore touch” was simply invaluable. Even the stern old dowagers whose brothers “had been at Eton with the dear Duke” were enchanted. For a full three-quarters of an hour Mr. Jupp was kept hard at it with songs and patter, jokes and conjuring tricks. No man could have worked more heroically in the cause of charity. The situation was saved.

XXX

WHILE Mr. Jupp so nobly held the breach, a doctor was summoned from the audience to attend Lady Elfreda. On his advice she was sent home at once to bed in the care of her maid. She was so overwrought that the doctor, fearing serious consequences, followed her to Clavering Park, stopping on the way at a chemist’s in the town to procure a bromide.

Lord Duckingfield, a much embarrassed witness of the play’s fiasco, had already come to the conclusion even before the ignominious descent of the curtain at the end of Act I, that Lady Elfreda had been driven too hard by the strain of perpetual rehearsal and that she had been induced to undertake a rôle beyond her powers. He had now an anxious consultation with Mrs. Minever as to what ought to be done. Both were so genuinely concerned that it was decided to telegraph to Lady Elfreda’s father and ask him to come at once to Clavering Park.

He was usually to be found in London at the Old Buck House Club. There a telegram was sent after a judicious formula had been decided upon so as not to alarm the paternal feelings of Lord Carabbas unduly.

The yellow chrysanthemum lady, who was really the soul of kindness, did not wait for the end of the performance, but accompanied by Lord Duckingfield she took a taxi as far as the post-office and personally dispatched the fateful telegram. Then, deeply anxious for Lady Elfreda’s welfare, they went on together to Clavering Park.

By the time Mrs. Minever reached home, Girlie, much soothed by the ministrations of the doctor, had been put to bed. Here, in as much comfort as a bad and thoroughly alarmed conscience would permit, she was found with the grim and scandalized Pikey sitting by her side.

“How are you, my dear?” said the hostess, kindly.

The invalid, although still looking very white and strained, said feebly that she was feeling much better.

“I am so glad.” Mrs. Minever took the hand of the sufferer gently within her own. “The whole thing has been a little too much for you, I’m afraid. You must keep very quiet for a day or two, and the doctor says you must not think of going to Mrs. Lancelot’s, at least not until the end of the week.”

Girlie’s deep sigh expressed acute relief. With a feeling that was almost content she closed her eyes. In the next moment, however, she had opened them again in horror.

“The doctor says you must stay in bed--at any rate until your father comes.”

“My father!” Girlie’s gasp had a thrill in it.

“Yes, my dear.” The voice of Mrs. Minever was very gentle. “Lord Duckingfield and I have just telegraphed to Lord Carabbas. We have told him not to be alarmed, but we have begged him to come down here to-night, if he can, or by the first train to-morrow.”

It was as much as ever Girlie could do to repress a groan. But this fortitude was beyond the panic-stricken Pikey, who was following closely every word of the conversation. She walked to the window in a state of terror. At that moment she hardly knew how to keep from throwing herself out of it.

The hostess strictly enjoined the patient to get some sound and refreshing sleep and not to worry about anything, and then she left the room. As the kind lady withdrew she little guessed the scene of desolation upon which she softly closed the door. The Deputy and the duenna were left frozen with horror. They looked at one another in tragic dismay.

In the end it was left to the unfortunate Pikey to break the silence.

“Himself!” she gasped. Putting her hands before her eyes she began to shake miserably.

It needed only this show of impotence to re-awaken Girlie’s latent hysteria. Tears began to flow down her white cheeks once again. A longing to kill her came upon the Werewolf.

In a little while, however, Girlie grew calmer. She was able to make a supreme effort for self-control. And, caught in the toils if ever human creature was, she was even nerved to a little constructive thinking.

“L-Lady Elfreda m-must know at once.”

Pikey remained mute and rigid as a stone.

“You m-must go to her and tell her that her f-father is c-coming.”

Far from Pikey’s intention though it might be to accept dictation from Miss No-Class she could yet judge that the proposal was not lacking in practical wisdom. Still she did not relish turning out on a winter’s evening on such an errand. But desperate diseases call for desperate remedies. After all, it was the only thing to be done. Elfreda was the key of the situation. And the sooner Elfreda understood what the situation now was the better for all concerned.

Finally, and with great reluctance, Pikey consented to set out for The Laurels immediately. She was really persuaded to do so less by the forlorn entreaties of the Deputy than by the hard logic of events. Weakly and foolishly false to her trust, Pikey felt that she had perhaps stronger reason than any one else to fear the coming of Himself.

XXXI

DURING the remainder of that terrible day Girlie stayed in bed. And to count the tardy minutes against Pikey’s return was her only occupation. Alas, it began to seem presently that the duenna would never come back. Hour after hour passed. Girlie’s heart sank to zero. Visions of ignominious disaster rose before her eyes. Lying there, passing in review all that had happened in the last incredible ten days it was impossible to recognize in such a queer adventuress the rather prim and certainly retiring person she had always known herself to be. Some strange virus had infected her. Force of example in the first place, no doubt, but allied also to a vaulting ambition which had o’erleaped itself.

Nine o’clock struck. Would Pikey never come back? Soon, however, the hostess came to see if her guest was quite comfortable, and to bid her good-night. The kind lady was full of solicitude. She felt sure that Lady Elfreda was a delicate flower and that the heavy task laid upon her had proved too much for her strength. The doctor had prescribed a sleeping draught which, in the absence of the maid, Mrs. Minever herself administered. The patient was then assured that the doctor would pay her a visit the next morning, and then the yellow chrysanthemum lady gave the sufferer a kiss and left her to a much needed night’s repose.

Despite the draught, however, Girlie had never in her life felt so little like sleeping. Wide-eyed and miserable, she tossed on a damp pillow, awaiting the arrival of the one person who could help her now. Surely Elfreda must come to the rescue. And she must come to-night. There was no time to lose. For it seemed to the guilty sufferer that it was of the last importance that Mrs. Minever and her guests should be prepared for the truth before the truth was rudely revealed by Lord Carabbas.

Shortly after ten Pikey returned. But she returned alone. Very tired and sorely disgruntled she had only cold comfort to offer. Her reception, to say the least, had been ungracious. And Elfreda had merely laughed when she was told that her father had been sent for, but her message to Miss Cass was that she would come to Clavering Park in the course of the next day and clear things up. In the meantime, in the cool and cynical words of Elfreda, the best thing for Miss Cass was to stop in bed.

Even this simple alternative proved to be a counsel of perfection. Left to her own devices throughout the darkness of many interminable hours, Girlie’s torments grew. The sleeping draught could not cope with her agitated brain. After a while, unable to lie still, she paced the large room. Why had she done as she had done? What madness had urged her? Was there no way of escape!

Between five and six o’clock, however, of that long vigil she came to a final resolve. She decided to go away. Exactly where her very small resources would take her she did not know, but in her present state of mind any place in the three kingdoms was to be preferred to Clavering Park.

Accordingly, fired with resolve, she packed a few necessities of travel into the most portable case she could find. She then dressed for a journey and with a sinking heart examined once again the contents of her purse. Her means, alas, were but two pounds seven shillings--two pounds seven shillings with which to face a cruelly inhospitable world!

That brutal fact must have given her pause had anything been capable of doing so now. But so little was she a reasonable being just then that the sheer hopelessness of such a flight could not turn her from her purpose. Before setting out on her travels she sat down at an escritoire and scribbled a hasty and tremulous line.

“I cannot bear this a moment longer. I am going away--I don’t know where. E. H. Cass.”

She sealed the note in an envelope duly addressed “To the Lady Elfreda Catkin.” This done, she adjusted that lady’s velours hat and fur coat, grasped her traveling bag and leather-handled umbrella and crept noiselessly, like the little thief she felt herself to be, out of King Edward’s room and down the richly carpeted central staircase.

By now it was nearly half-past six. At present there was not a sign of the servants, but the light was already beginning to show above the famous elms in the park. Gentle-footed as a cat, Girlie crept like a ghost across the hall parquet. To do that cost her one pang more. That particular spot was full of memories. No matter what experiences the future held she would never be able to forget the kindly simple man who had wanted to marry her.

She stole through the shadows of a dim corridor to the heavily barred front door. It proved a nerve-racking business to withdraw its chains and bolts, yet it was not these things which suddenly brought her up short with an icy gasp of fear.

Without warning of any kind a hand was laid upon her shoulder. As she half turned a strange face confronted hers in the semi-darkness of the corridor.

“Early abroad.” Whoever the speaker might be his appearance was a little strained, a little odd. His voice, with its queer, rather mocking laugh, seemed equally so. Something there was in the dark, heavily mustached, rather Semitic countenance, that sent a chill through Girlie’s heart.

Powerless to speak, she felt her knees sinking under her. Instinct, that fatal instinct for the world and its ways, told her at once who and what this man was. His next sinister words were not needed to enlighten her, although they did so quite unmistakably.

“You had better go back to bed, hadn’t you?” The voice was soft, but it was soft with menace. “You see, I’ve been looking out for this. Played it up rather high, haven’t you--er--Miss?--I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name. But we shall know it soon enough, unless, of course”--the laugh was not at all kind--“you are in a position to prove to the satisfaction of Lord Carabbas that you are really his daughter.”

Girlie, mute and shaking, realized that the end had come. She continued to listen sickly to the malicious and unpleasant voice. “As I say, we don’t know who you are, we don’t know what your record may be, but if without putting us to further trouble you will tell us where Mrs. Minever’s sapphire and diamond ring is to be found I’ll give you my word that the police will make it as easy for you as they can.”

Bereft of speech, Girlie could only tremble. She had to lean against the wall for support. This man was a detective from Scotland Yard who, at the instance of Mrs. Minever, had come to Clavering Park to clear up the matter of the missing jewelry.

“Now be a sensible young woman and go straight back to your room without making a fuss. And just see that you stay there until I’ve had a chance to have a little talk with the lady of the house. If you go quietly and behave sensibly I’ll undertake to do what I can for you.”

There was only one thing for it now, and that was to take the detective’s advice. This, accordingly, Girlie did. She returned to her room and sat forlornly by the window gazing on to the park awaiting further developments. After a time, in spite of the fur coat, the chill of a November morning fell upon her. Finding that her teeth were chattering, she decided to return to her down-quilted bed.

Here, in this temporary security, she toyed with the excellent breakfast which in the course of time was brought to her. And then she exerted her will to the uttermost in order to deal with events as they arose.

The first event to arise was the coming of Mrs. Minever. Upon the brisk entrance of that lady into the room shortly before ten, Girlie looked up from an uneasy pillow to scan the face of the hostess eagerly so that she might read her doom. But her doom was by no means easy to read. The hostess was her usual bright and cheerful self. She had, moreover, the air of solicitude of the previous night. Girlie, steeling herself to bear terrible reproaches, was quite at a loss to understand what had occurred.

“I do hope you have slept, my dear.” There was absolutely no hint of the early morning drama of the hall door. “The doctor will be here soon. In the meantime, you must stay where you are and keep very quiet.”

Immensely reassured by the tone Girlie decided to do as she was told. All the same she hardly knew how to hide her surprise. She had been looking forward to a very different scene.

In point of fact, Mrs. Minever was taking no chances. The detective had told his story. He had presented his theory for what it was worth, and to Mrs. Minever’s keen indignation he had not scrupled to throw doubt upon the identity of the chief guest. Mrs. Minever had pooh-poohed the theory. It really seemed the most unlikely she had ever heard. Not only was there the evidence of the guest’s coronetted luggage and personal belongings, there was the word of Mr. Montagu Jupp and also the fact that she had been accepted by the Lancelots. No, Mrs. Minever was not inclined to take risks of that kind. She was almost tempted to call the detective a fool for his pains. His theory was monstrous. The poor child was merely overwrought.

By this time, besides, there was another factor in the case. A telegram had been received from Lord Carabbas. Already that peer was en route by the 8.50 from Paddington, which was due at Clavering St. Mary’s about midday. His arrival upon the scene would set every doubt at rest.

In the meantime, Mrs. Minever, like the wise woman she was, gave no countenance to these fantastic suspicions. Yet had she been at all inclined to do so she must have observed the look of unmistakable horror that came into the eyes of her guest when she was told that her father would arrive in a few hours. Mrs. Minever’s one desire was to reassure the nervous and excitable creature. And so little perceptive was the good lady that presently she withdrew from King Edward’s room strong in the belief that she had done so.

Smitten with an ever-growing fear, Girlie lay shivering with dread. The coming of Elfreda was the only hope left to her. Would that intransigeant turn up at Clavering Park before her father? If she did not the consequences would be too dire to contemplate.