CHAPTER XV
Indeed it was Mr. Omee whom the Company censured—Mr. Omee who had been inhuman enough to banish a worthless performance from his theatre. "Never," said Miss Jinman, "in all her experience had she known artists to be so grossly insulted." Mr. Quisby's position might be ambiguous, Mr. Quisby might be shirking his responsibilities; not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. Quisby might be a rogue. But he had paid them compliments—and Mr. Omee had shut his doors against them. Mr. Omee was the innocent person whom they execrated and reviled.
In the quarter where the "professional apartments" of Blithepoint are most numerous, the landladies looked anxious in the morning. On every doorstep in Corporation Road, and half way down Alfreton Terrace, the news was known by nine o'clock. The lodgers were obliged to fence with searching questions at breakfast, and many of the houris heating curling-tongs in the parlour-fire were told that it would "save trouble if they got in their dinner themselves."
Towards midday the Company straggled off the pier with baskets and parcels, and the baggageman was busy collecting the clothes-hampers. The boards of Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell had gone from the turnstiles, and later, bill-stickers came along and splashed up advertisements of a stopgap. The rejected comedians stood on the Parade and eyed the work morosely. They had hoped the theatre would have to be closed. Miss Jinman said, "It was very strange, to say the least; she didn't understand how the bills had been printed since last night! It looked to her as if Mr. Omee had been playing them false from the start!"
Then striking proof of Mr. Omee's perfidy was forthcoming, his brutal nature was revealed to the full—he offered to make the stranded performers by whom he had lost money, a present of their fares if they liked to return to their homes. "Ah," said the Chorus, "that shows what a dirty trick he served us!" "He has exposed his hand there," said Miss Jinman; "wants to get us out of the town!"
And Mr. Quisby, who meant to pay them nothing, but was endeavouring to make use of them in Slocombe-on-the-Swamp the following week before he decamped, told them there was a reviving prospect of a three months' tour.
So not more than a third of the Company profited by Mr. Omee's generosity, and the others warned them that they were being very unwise.
And by this time the tidings of the disaster had spread from Corporation Road and Alfreton Terrace as far as the Grand Hotel, where it provided languid amusement, and the plight of the players was known to all the visitors on the Front. Including Conrad.
But it was not until Friday, December 26th, that one of those incidents which may occur to anybody associated him with the matter.
It had been misty since morning, and towards the close of day the fog deepened. When he left a house where he had been lunching with a man, he took the wrong turning. So far as he was able to see at all, he saw that he had blundered into a neighbourhood which was strange to him. A humble neighbourhood, apparently, with nothing of a watering-place about it. This being Boxing-day, the little shops to which he came were shuttered, and owing to the weather, few people were abroad. He wandered amid dim desertion. Then as he paused, hesitating, two girls emerged suddenly from the fog, and stopped before him.
"Oh!" exclaimed one of them, "could you tell us where Gandy's the greengrocer's is?"
"I am so sorry," said Conrad, "I can't. Can you direct me to the Parade?"
She answered absurdly that he was "coming away from it," though he was standing still. "It's over there," she said; "you go down there, and take the first on the left, and keep straight on. You can't miss it."
"I have missed it," demurred Conrad. "Thank you for rescuing me. I wish I could direct you to Gandy's the greengrocer's in return."
The other girl had not spoken yet, but now she said—
"Oh, never mind, thanks, we shall find it; they say it's quite near. But it's too dark to make out the names."
It was also too dark to make out her features, but her voice was delicious, and if the fog didn't flatter her, she was dowered with the eyes that he most ardently admired. He was all at once sensible of a keen interest in the whereabouts of the greengrocer's.
"That seems to be a shop at the corner; I'll go over and see what it is!" he said promptly. But it was a general dealer's, and he came back not displeased.
"Bother! We must find it!" cried the first girl.
"May I come and help you?" he asked.
"Oh, you can come if you like," she said; and added as a pure concession to formality, "It's awf'ly kind of you."
So they all proceeded through the fog.
"It's such a nuisance everything being shut to-day," the first girl went on. "That's why we want Gandy's—they say Gandy's live there, and might oblige us. We can ring 'em up."
"Fruit?" he inquired.
"No," she said; "flowers—violets. We want some for the concert to-night. Are you going?"
"Certainly I am," said Conrad. "What concert? I haven't heard about it?"
"Oh well, it was only settled this morning. We're giving a concert at the Victoria Hall—The Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell Company. It's to help us all. Mr. Quisby—our manager—only let me know just now. I'm going to sing a 'flower-song,' and I want some 'button-holes' to throw among the Audience; I can't do the song without."
"Throw one to me," said Conrad.
"I will," she promised. "We ought to get some people in, as it's bank holiday, don't you think so? And if the show 'goes,' we can have the hall again to-morrow. The tickets are only sixpence and a shilling. Did you see us on the pier?"
"No," he said, "I wasn't here then—I was just too late. How many tickets can you let me have?"
"Oh, you'll get them at the door! we haven't got any. You'll really come, won't you?"
"I'll come if I miss my dinner to get there," he vowed. "Where is Victoria Hall?"
"It's—I don't know the name of the street. It's near the station. Anybody'll tell you. We begin at eight o'clock."
This was all very well, but the Girl of the Voice had not spoken again, and he wished she would say something.
"Shall I hear you sing, too?" he asked, looking across at her. He looked across at her just as they approached a lamp-post, and his most sanguine hopes were realised. He found her adorable.
"No, I am not in the programme," said Rosalind.
"Here's a policeman!" cried Miss Lascelles. "Can you tell us where Gandy's the greengrocer's is?" she begged again.
The constable did not know, and, official though useless, took a long time to say so. More intelligently he remarked that it was "Nasty weather for Boxing-day," and Conrad gave him a half-crown. The next instant they deciphered the name of "Gandy" themselves.
"What a stupid policeman!" exclaimed Rosalind, pouting. She pulled the bell, and glanced at Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at her. "Your troubles are nearly over," she said with a smile.
"I am not impatient," owned Conrad.
There were descending footsteps, and a woman opened the door.
He said ingratiatingly, "I am sorry to disturb you, but we're trying to get some flowers. Can you let me have some?"
"Flowers?" said the woman. She had a vacant stare.
"A few bunches of violets," Rosalind explained.
"Y-e-s," murmured the woman. She made a long pause. "We 'aven't got no flowers now," she said. "N—no. I'm sorry we can't oblige you."
"Can you tell us where we can get some?" put in Miss Lascelles sharply.
"No——no, I couldn't say, I'm sure," faltered the woman.... "There's Peters' opperzite—p'raps they might be able to oblige you."
"Do you know where there's a florist's?" questioned Conrad.
"Florist's?" She shook her head. "N—no, I can't say as I do—not one as is likely to be open to-day."
"Let's try Peters'!" they said; and scurried across the road.
Here they pulled without effect; the bell yielded to them immoderately, but no tinkle came. They regarded one another, discouraged.
"You had better leave us to our fate," sighed Rosalind.
"Are you dismissing me?" His tone was reproachful.
"Releasing you," she said, in her best St. James' manner.
"My chains are flowers," said he ornately.
"I wish you'd give 'em to me!" said Tattie Lascelles.
"You shall have them before we part. Ladies, I have an inspiration! You know the way to the Parade—let's go down there and get a fly. Then we've nothing more to do—the responsibility's the flyman's. We'll take him by the hour, and make him drive us about Blithepoint till we find a florist's. Is it carried?"
"Unanimously!" cried Rosalind. "Right about face, quick march!"
And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. When the man had recovered from his astonishment at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, and developed ideas. He suggested "Mitchell's," and drove them to a fashionable florist's in the Mall. Nothing could have been happier. Mr. Mitchell accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as amiably as if bank-holidays were of no importance. Bountifully he brought forward his best for them, and his best was as beauteous as it was expensive.
The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after the fog, and Rosalind among the azaleas was divine. (There are few keener pleasures than taking out a nice woman, and spending money on her; and it is unnecessary that one should go out fond of the woman—it's so easy to get fond of her in the process.) "Oh no, really!" she protested—and she meant it, for Miss Lascelles was already laden—"No, none for me, really!"
"Just these," pleaded Conrad; "they're so pretty—it's a shame to leave them behind." He put them in her hands.
"I'd like you to see some roses I've got here, sir," said the proprietor; "it's not often you can see roses like those."
"Exquisite," assented Conrad.... "And just a few roses, won't you?"
"Well one, then," she said succumbing.
"We'll have some roses!" commanded Conrad magnificently. "And those look nice—those lilies-of-the-valley. You might give us some lilies-of-the-valley, will you?"
"I'll have nothing else," she told him in her first undertone. The woman's first undertone is so sweet.
"A few?" he entreated. "You ought to wear lilies-of-the-valley! I wish you were going to sing to-night."
"Do you?"
"I shall see you there, sha'n't I?"
She nodded. "Yes, I shall be in 'front.'"
"I'm so glad I met you!"
He thought of taking them in to the hotel to tea, but her companion's toilette had been very hasty.
The fly was as fragrant as a flower show when they drove away. She buried her fair face in the blossoms he had given to her. It's permissible, but it may stir the man's imagination. It stirred Conrad's; he had rarely wanted a kiss from a woman so much. In the scented dusk, as their gaze met, her eyes were luminous—like stars.
The fly rattled into Corporation Road, and he wondered whether she was going to ask him if he would 'come in.' The fly stopped.
"Au revoir," he said. "Victoria Hall? I have the name right?"
"Won't you come and help us put the flowers in water?" she suggested.
It was of interest to see her without a hat. When she took off her coat he was captivated. He stayed about ten minutes, and the other girl didn't go out of the room. Both went to the door with him when he left.
"Eight o'clock, then?" he said.
"Eight o'clock."
"Whom shall I ask for if I don't see you?"
"'Miss Daintree;' but you're sure to see me."
"You won't be late?"
"No, I shall be there when it begins. Good-bye—and thanks!"
"Oh!—Good-bye."
He saw her smile to him again from the step—and the cab turned.
"What a lark! I say, isn't he mashed on you! Do you like his moustache? Hasn't he got lovely teeth?" exclaimed Tattie in the passage.
"Y-e-s.... He's rather nice," said Rosalind.