Part 8

Pikey was still strong enough not to yield her office, but her methods became less drastic. The Deputy, however, was not permitted to wear the blue dress. She was curtly told that _real_ ladies did not appear in the same frock on two successive evenings. An affair of pink silk was unwillingly placed at her disposal. And when Girlie came to look at herself in the glass, she found it just as becoming and slightly more modern in style. Perhaps it did not go quite so well with her eyes, but in the course of an epic twenty-four hours the rose had deepened in her cheeks, so that all things considered “what she lost on the roundabouts she gained on the swings.”

XVII

THE anxieties of the day had not improved the nerves of Miss Cass. They were a little frayed, no doubt, when she was led in to dinner on the arm of the genial, loud-voiced host. Mr. Minever was a great one for chaff and there was something about poor Girlie’s woe-begone appearance that was a direct challenge to his powers. Had the Bartlet’s masterpiece proved too much for her? If the little man wrote as he talked she was a very wise young woman, in Mr. Minever’s opinion, to keep her bed in order to grapple with his dialogue. Sir Toby laughed brightly at all the sallies which reached his end of the table, where the luckless yellow chrysanthemum lady and Mrs. Spencer-Jobling were bearing up with superhuman patience. Still, it has to be said for Sir Toby that he was a little sportsman in his way.

From time to time, as the noisily cheerful meal went on, Sir Toby stole a glance down the table at the innocent cause of the mirth. She really was nailingly pretty, although her color was so high this evening that it could hardly be her own. The little man grew pensive, not to say distrait. By the time the port appeared it had begun to seem rather a pity that Carabbas notoriously “hadn’t a bob.” Still Grandpapa Angora was on his last legs according to all accounts, and even if keeping up a dukedom was becoming an expensive hobby and supertax was now on a very democratic basis, the head of the clan must surely have kept a little bit in the family stocking just to bring them in out of the rain.

Indeed, that seemed quite a fascinating speculation as Sir Toby preened his small tail feathers and held the door for the ladies to file cheerfully and jauntily out of the room. But one there was neither jaunty nor cheerful. She was a duke’s granddaughter it was true, but she was so timid and demure that she might have been a nursery governess. Her one desire, seemingly, was to efface herself altogether. And yet, as Sir Toby reflected, there _is_ something to be said after all for pedigree stock. These Sheffielders--or was it Leeds they came from?--with their familiarity, their badinage, their amazing self-confidence, how tiresome they were! The little Catkin Puss might be dull--dull as a mud fence--but when the worst had been said, she was a Lady!

“Penny for your thoughts, Philpot.” The loud-voiced host emphasized this speculative offer by pushing his so-called 1890 towards Sir Toby.

“Worth a sight more than that, ain’t they, Pot?” quoth a puffy man opposite with a face as red as a boiled lobster. And then, to Sir Toby’s unspeakable annoyance, he winked impudently at the others. “But I’m bound to say I admire your taste.”

The retort which rose to the long suffering lips of Sir Toby was, “I wish I could return the compliment!” That would have been a fit reply to one who always made a point of treating him as if he were still in Puppyhole. His tormentor, one Garden by name, was a man of some parts, but in the course of a rather hopeless life, having done most things and most people, he had steadily declined in the world’s esteem, until now there was only dramatic criticism, occasional journalism and the tolerance of club acquaintances between the jail, the poorhouse and himself.

Soft, however, was Sir Toby’s answer. This same Garden had once kicked him round Sixpenny, and although the experience had not done him as much good as it might have, the little baronet had a deep-seated desire that it should never happen again.

The host, however, that prince of crude fellows whose size in dancing pumps was a large ten, lost no time in putting his foot still deeper in the mire. Before Sir Toby could deal efficiently with his ancient foe, Mr. Minever had coarsely guffawed, “So does Duckingfield.” At this breach of taste on the part of the host, Sir Toby glared. And the new peer glared also.

“I _fink_ you are up for the O. B. H.,” said Sir Toby in tones that would have re-frozen an icicle.

The host grinned at Garden. “Means he’s going to see about pilling me, eh?”

Said that worthy, “If he does, you’ll get in for sure.”

“S-s-sh! Don’t give it away!” Again the host grinned at Garden. “But, seriously, she’s as pretty as pretty. And I’m willing to lay a hundred to ten she gets off before next season.”

Ruefully and wrathfully reflected Sir Toby, “This man Minever doesn’t begin to be Sahib. An awful pity we are not stayin’ with somebody else. However....”

As for my lord of Duckingfield, whose hostile gaze was short-circuiting Sir Toby’s inmost thoughts, he too was nursing an almost savage antagonism. “Like to punch his head for him”--that was its formula. But whose head it was that the honest and forthright Midlander yearned to punch was not exactly clear. He certainly glared at the host as the desire passed through his mind, but with even greater intensity he glared at Sir Toby.

Howbeit, Sir Toby returned the gesture with interest. The little man had been only too quick to read the thought in the mind of the presumptuous maker of munitions. How dare this newest of new men lift his eyes to a duke’s granddaughter?

To some minds it is not the least of the advantages pertaining to an old title that it is competent to ask these questions!

XVIII

DURING the epic days which followed, the mind of Sir Toby was haunted by this inquiry. But there were matters almost as vital to vex that ingenuous soul. From the first the rehearsals were not at all satisfactory. The author of “The Lady of Laxton” did not pretend to be more than a tyro in theatrical affairs and the company he had gathered to embody the heir of his invention was as resolutely “amateur,” if rather less enthusiastic, than himself. In the first place “social position” was felt to be even more important than histrionic ability, a fact which made the eleventh-hour defection of Mr. Montagu Jupp the more to be deplored. He was to have been the prop and mainstay of “the production.” But, as the cynical Garden shrewdly declared, the astute Montagu must have smelt a rat.

“I hope, Pot,” said that critic when the second rehearsal had come to its dismal end and a dark specter was invading Sir Toby’s life, “you were not such a fool as to let Jupp see the list of your people.”

Sir Toby ingenuously admitted that he had.

“Hence the pyramids, my boy.” The relentless Garden chuckled. “Unavoidably detained. Important business. Great Cumberland place!” _Flaneur_ of the _Dramatic and Sporting Weekly_ whistled a few bars of Chopin’s Funeral March. “You little fathead, you ought to be bled for the simples!”

“I assure you, old man,” said Sir Toby, almost tearfully, “Lady Elfreda simply knocked ’em endways in Yorkshire in the ‘Duke of Killiecrankie.’”

“But you can’t hear a word she says.”

It was fatally true, and there was the crux of the whole matter. The star artiste, upon whom so very much depended, might never have been on a stage before. So far she was grievously disappointing. She showed little intelligence and less aptitude, and she was so shy of opening her mouth that it seemed certain that “on the night” she would not be heard by the first row of stalls.

So much was clear already even to the capacity of Sir Toby Philpot. Indeed it was slowly beginning to dawn upon him that somebody must have been “pulling his leg.” He had been too ready to take the word of others, of Monty Jupp for example, that Lady Elfreda had so much talent, “that she could play the ingénues out of all the West End theaters.” That was the memorable phrase the sagacious and admired Montagu had used. The old wretch had simply been pulling his leg. No wonder that important business kept him from Clavering St. Mary’s. “What a fool I have been,” reflected the despondent author, “not to take the simple precaution of seeing the girl act before counting upon her to pull us through.”

In the course of the third rehearsal, which proved even more trying than the other two, the company began to show unmistakable signs of mutiny. Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, for instance, who felt she had a reputation to lose on the stage if nowhere else, became so openly and mordantly sarcastic that she actually reduced the leading lady to tears. Later in the day a sort of informal meeting was held in the library, at which Garden presided, in the course of which it was decided to present an ultimatum to Sir Toby. Either he must obtain professional assistance and advice or the cast would throw up their parts en masse.

Only five days now remained, for on the following Tuesday the performance was due in the Assembly Rooms. Faced by this ultimatum Sir Toby was in despair. But one fact was clear. If the situation was to be saved a Titan was called for. At all hazards the recalcitrant Montagu must come down to Clavering Park. And all the art, all the tact, all the experience of even that superman would be necessary if the curtain was to rise on Tuesday afternoon.

With the ferocity of despair Sir Toby telephoned at once to the great man’s chambers in the Albany. Alas, Mr. Montagu Jupp was out of town, but he was expected from Newmarket in the course of that evening. Soon after dinner Sir Toby telephoned again, but Montagu had not returned. Finally, on the verge of midnight, the author telephoned a third time and on this occasion success rewarded him. The authentic voice of Montagu informed him that he had just donned his pyjamas. That plea, however, was of no avail; for a long twenty minutes he had to suffer the prayers and the entreaties of the unlucky author of “The Lady of Laxton.” But to these he was deaf. Mr. Montagu Jupp had reasons of his own for not throwing himself into the breach. He remained adamant. Important business must keep him in town for at least another week, shamelessly adding particularly as he had just lost a valuable day at Newmarket.

Then it was that Sir Toby, knowing all to be lost unless Montagu relented, hastily decided upon a final and desperate throw. He would run up to town by the early morning train and so bring home to the great man the extreme urgency of the whole position. And in the evening he would return with him to Clavering Park if flesh and blood could compass that essential deed.

XIX

TIME was precious indeed if “The Lady of Laxton” was ever to know the vicarious glamour of the footlights, but an acute sense of relief was felt by all the members of the cast when at breakfast time the next morning it was announced that for that day at least there was to be an interregnum. In the absence of Sir Toby there would be no further rehearsal until the following day. And to no member of the company was the news quite so welcome as the leading lady.

Girlie had been nearly a week now at Clavering Park and events were nerving her almost to the pitch of desperation. She had reached the point at which she hardly cared what happened. Yet if not exactly a fighter she had the tenacity that often goes with weak natures, and there were certain aspects of the adventure, strange nightmare as it was, that were delightful. In spite of the drawbacks to a position which she had been absolutely mad to accept, this was Life with a very large letter. As far as she herself was concerned it was all a wonder and a wild desire, a never-to-be-forgotten romance, a complex of soul-harrowing torments and delirious possibilities. She really felt that if she could emerge from this position of peril without being damned eternally in the sight of the world, she would have gained so much first-hand experience that she might hope to become one of the foremost novelists of her time and country.

All the same it needed every spark of will power she could summon not to run away. Each night as she came to assuage her throbbing temples with the luxury of King Edward’s bedroom and the incidents of the day recurred to her, how she contrived to go on “sticking it” she simply did not know. Time and again as she realized how near she must be to discovery she shuddered in the depths of her soul. And heaven knew what penalty would be exacted when the discovery was inevitably made!

Had a reasonable alternative presented itself she must have bolted after her abject failure at the third rehearsal. By no means a fool, she was only too keenly aware of the veiled hostility and the covert sarcasms of the other ladies. But what could she do? Where could she go? She had no money beyond a few rapidly diminishing Bradburys. She had no home, no friends; above all, she had thrown away her situation without any sort of hope of getting another one. Merely to review such a position was to induce a paralysis of the will. Whatever happened she must hold on a little while longer, if only in self defense. Yet as she clearly foresaw the time was surely coming when she must be found out, or still worse, when her overdriven nerves would give way and compel her to throw up the sponge.

It was a huge relief, therefore, to learn that the rehearsals were suspended until Sir Toby’s return. But it was certainly tempered as far as Miss Cass was concerned, by Mr. Minever’s announcement at breakfast that the little man had sworn a great oath that he would bring Monty Jupp back with him or he would die in the attempt. Opinion was divided as to whether or not Sir Toby would have to embrace the grim alternative. The majority, however, were so emphatic that Sir Toby’s mission was doomed to fail, that the trembling Girlie plucked up a little courage. After all there was still a slender hope that the mysterious Providence which so far had watched over her would continue to do so.

Before the morning was far advanced Girlie had quite an inspiration. She suddenly decided to set forth to The Laurels and seek advice from the person best able to give it. Moreover, this course of action commended itself to Pikey. When the Dragon was informed of the project she agreed that in the circumstances it was quite the best thing the Deputy could do and gave her some sound advice as to the best means of getting there.

Cunning was needed to escape the attentions of the hostess and her fellow guests. Yet it was not really difficult to slip away unseen, for by this time, having become thoroughly unpopular with the other members of the house party, they were now leaving her severely alone. As Girlie’s conversation was confined almost exclusively to “Yes” and “No,” it had become rather a moot point with the others as to whether this was a form of “side” on the part of Lady Elfreda, or whether it was that she was merely a fool. The more charitable view was perhaps the latter. At any rate, her aloofness no longer caused surprise, while her movements generally roused no particular interest.

Duly instructed by Pikey and favored by a fair share of luck, Girlie arrived at The Laurels about half-past eleven. She was received by a rather supercilious parlor-maid, who met her demand to see Miss Cass by showing her into the drawing room. The parlor-maid then asked the name of the visitor. Girlie met the case by the modest formula, “Please say a lady would like to see her.”

It happened, however, that the ever-watchful mistress of the house was lurking near at hand. She had observed the visitor’s arrival from the window of the morning room and filled with curiosity she now intercepted the parlor-maid before she could deliver the message to Miss Cass.

“Who is it, Jarvis?”

“A lady, ma’am, to see Miss Cass. She won’t give her name, ma’am.”

“How odd.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson ruminated for a brief twenty seconds. Then she added, “I will tell Miss Cass myself.”

Further rumination followed. In the class of born-busybodies, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had claims to rank high. Curiosity stirred her in regard to this quite attractive-looking and decidedly well-turned-out young woman--Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson prided herself upon being a judge of such matters--who declined to give her name. And the new governess was enough of “a dark horse” already without having secretive callers to intensify the mystery. Therefore it took Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson less than a minute to seek the light for herself.

The mistress of the house entered the drawing room flutelike but dominant, and her unexpected appearance came to the visitor, who was girding herself to do battle with some one very different, as a complete surprise. Frankly, almost naïvely quizzical, the lady of the house made no secret of a desire for information. “Perhaps you will tell me who you are and then I will tell Miss Cass.”

Somehow Girlie had not been able to foresee that it would be necessary to provide herself with a name. But only too clearly a name was required. And on the spur of the moment there was only one that came to her. Almost in spite of herself it now sprang automatically to her lips.

“Lady Elfreda Catkin.”

It was a terrible blunder, and this Girlie realized at the very moment in which it was made. But, taken so completely by surprise, and faced with the calm insistence of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, no middle course seemed open. If anything, however, this revelation of identity added fuel to the flame of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s curiosity. The mystery surrounding the new governess appeared to deepen considerably. And it grew more intriguing than ever.

Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was visibly impressed. Her first thought was that Miss Cass’s boast of the Lancelots being old friends of her mother’s was in some sort corroborated, her second thought was that the distinguished friends of the new governess made her so interesting that she was rather glad than otherwise that Miss Cass had not yet received a month’s notice. For the past four days, in fact, almost from the moment of the arrival of Dolores Parbury, who had taken a violent dislike to Miss Cass, the mistress of The Laurels had been at the point of terminating the engagement of that lady. But for some reason or other the drastic step had remained in abeyance, and as Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson made a dignified progress to the schoolroom she was inclined to rejoice that it had.

Miss Cass in that slow, cool, oddly imperious voice of hers, which had the malign power of driving the other ladies to secret fury, was in the act of setting a sulky Master Peter and a disgruntled Miss Joan to write to dictation. The children made no secret of the fact that they had a hearty dislike of Miss Cass, and that lady, if austerity of mien and acidity of tongue were any indication, hardly cared to disguise that their feelings were fully reciprocated. But as the smiling Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson floated into the room, with quite a new air of kindly politeness, and informed Miss Cass that Lady Elfreda Catkin had called to see her and that she now awaited her in the drawing room the heavy thunderclouds were momentarily dispersed. All the same, as Miss Cass laid down her book and her pencil they suddenly returned with added density.

“Another friend of your mother’s, Miss Cass?” There was not a suspicion of sarcasm in that discreet inquiry. It was the honest child of a shameless curiosity.

“Ye-es.” The somewhat ambiguous reply of Miss Cass was extremely reluctant. And there was a look on her face that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had no means of interpreting.

“Such a pretty girl.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was a little inclined to gush. “And so very young to be such a clever actress.”

Miss Cass looked coldly down her arrogant nose. The little idiot must have taken leave of her wits!

The new governess did not seem to be anywise flattered by having such a very interesting young woman to call upon her. Thunderclouds gathered even more heavily about her as she rose from the table and made her way to the drawing room.

Consumed by an intense curiosity, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson would dearly have liked to put her ear to the keyhole of the drawing room door. But the line has to be drawn somewhere, and with a sigh Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson remembered that she was “a lady.” Well it was that she had this scruple, for the conversation the other side of the door must have increased the flame that was devouring her.

“Why are _you_ here?” was Elfreda’s greeting to her pale and embarrassed counterfeit.

The answer was tears.

“I--I don’t think I can keep on.” So complex is the human mind that even in that moment of genuine tragedy poor Girlie could not help noticing with what an air of authority the blue serge skirt she had contrived out of her meager capital and the cunning of her own needle and the woolen jumper she had knitted herself were now invested. The trim form of their present wearer showed them off to rare advantage.

It was a painful meeting, nevertheless. Girlie was at the limit of endurance. In the pitiless view of the evil genius who had brought a highly respectable daughter of suburbia to the verge of ruin she looked even more rabbit-like than when she had seen her last. And at that moment Elfreda’s paramount desire was to shake her.

“I hope you don’t mean that you are going to run away?” There was a nascent ferocity that threatened actual bodily violence.

“I--I don’t know,” gasped the visitor.

“You don’t mean to say they’ve found out!”

Girlie reluctantly admitted that they had not yet actually done so, but that it was as certain as anything could be that the hour was near when all must be discovered.

“Not necessarily,” was the Stoic’s answer, “if only you keep on doing your best.”

But there is a limit to human endurance and Miss Cass seemed to have reached it already. Besides she was now in very deep waters indeed and in no sense was she a strong swimmer. Alarming developments threatened continually and she now felt that she simply could not go on.

However, she was in the toils of an implacable will.

“You are bound to go through with it now,” said the pitiless Elfreda. “It will let them down shamefully if you run away before the performance. You must at least wait until afterwards.”

“But I am sure to be found out.”

“You have not been found out yet, and you will not be--if you continue to do your best.”

Even if Miss Cass continued to do her best, however, and if by a supreme effort she brought herself finally to face the music, what must be the upshot of it all? She had no place to go to when this tragic farce was at an end. What was to become of her? The nearer she approached the abyss that yawned beneath her feet the wider and blacker it looked. In the end, as she knew only too well, that bottomless pit must devour her.

“But I will certainly find you another situation--when the time comes,” said Elfreda staunchly.

It was very well for the reckless author of the mischief to promise so boldly, but what did such a promise amount to? As far as Girlie was concerned the future appeared hopeless.

Besides, the matter had another aspect, of which the Deputy had lately been made aware. She was afraid, she was terribly afraid, that a certain peer was on the verge of proposing to her.