CHAPTER XVII
"I want something substantial," said Conrad gravely, shaking his head. "For the follow, say a Chateaubriand."
Two days had passed, and in his mind a new and disquieting thought had risen—the thought that Rosalind couldn't pay for enough to eat.
Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, conjuring steaks and puddings on to the tables of a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange stories to account for her having half-sovereigns to lend. But Conrad could not know that. He only knew that the necessities of the Kiss-and-Tell Company were more urgent than he had understood; and he felt very sorry for all the girls, but his heart bled for Lady Bountiful.
"A Chateaubriand," he repeated firmly. It was nourishing. "And pommes soufflées.... No? Well, I'll leave the potatoes to you. With a chestnut purée, eh? And let us have nice sweets. Don't give me the table d'hôte sweets—special. What about peaches? ... Well, send for the best fruit you can get—you've plenty of time. Where's the wine-list? A quarter to two. That table in the corner—for three persons."
There is one place in Blithepoint where the chef can cook, though he shirks pommes soufflées. You go downstairs to it—unless you choose the hotel entrance—and it was in the restaurant downstairs that Conrad ordered the luncheon on Monday. He meant to say things at luncheon. But when Rosalind and Tattie arrived, there was a bomb-shell with the hors d'oeuvres.
"Mr. Quisby has bolted!" they cried, taking their seats.
"Bolted?" he echoed. "How do you know?"
"Queenie Vavasour and Miss Jinman have been to his rooms this morning. They went to tell him they must have some money. He has gone, he went last night—with our concert sixpences."
"I say!" exclaimed Conrad. He was by this time almost a member of the Company. "What are we all going to do?"
"It's a nice fix," continued Rosalind, reproachfully. "I told you this would happen, I never thought he'd be able to take us on anywhere else—never for a moment. Didn't I warn you?"
"You did," said Conrad. "Oh! I admit it. Will you have a sardine, or——? Miss Lascelles, let me give you some of the pretty ones with the red and yellow."
"I told you all along," repeated Rosalind, "that girls could do nothing for themselves in a matter like that; that it needed a man to take it up. Now, didn't I say so?"
"You said so several times. But you didn't suggest what I should do. I couldn't menace him with a revolver."
"Men are so lazy!" she smiled.
"You may smile," said Conrad reprovingly, "but it's very serious for us. We are all out of an engagement."
"Yes," she agreed. "And goodness only knows when you'll get one again!"
"That's sheer spite—you're jealous of my talent. Miss Lascelles, tell her I can't be out of an engagement long."
"With all his experience?" cried Tattie. "His notices as 'Buttercup' were immense!"
"Poor Miss Jinman!" sighed Rosalind; "I'm sorry for that old woman." She nodded at Conrad. "You should see her this morning!"
"I want to see her," he declared, "or rather, I want one of you to see her for me. You know we've all got to stick together in this thing, and——"
"And 'be loyal to the show!'" said Tattie.
"No, but joking aside, I want you girls to help me straighten things out. I was going to talk to you about it anyhow. Now tell me—what do they all want?"
"I suppose they all want a 'shop,'" Tattie answered.
"I can't give them a 'shop'—I'm not in the business—but I might send them home with a few of the Best in their pockets. How would that do?"
They lifted their heads, and looked at him; and the waiter put the soup on the table.
"Did you mean it?" murmured Rosalind when the waiter had turned his back.
"Well, of course. Now this looks very good; let's enjoy our lunch! We seem to be getting on a bit, so we needn't worry. Don't you think you ought to take your jacket off—you'll be cold when you go out?"
"No, I've loosened it," she said. "But—er—do you know I'd rather you didn't do that? I—I think they could all manage without."
"Now, why interfere?" said Conrad peevishly. "This is my department. You have bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own showing you distrusted the man—and you let him escape, instead of patrolling his doorstep like a bright young woman. Then when I bring intelligence to bear on the matter, and we're all happy, you must cut in and throw cold water on the scheme. Take your soup and be good."
"Isn't it nice?" said Tattie.
"Now that's a sensible remark. I turn to you—we won't be interfered with. Suppose you help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa Claus in Corporation Road for me?"
"Oh," she faltered. "You had better go yourself."
"I?" gasped Conrad; "I wouldn't do it for a million—they'd thank me, some people have got no tact."
"They'd cry over you," she said, with tears in her own voice. "You don't know what it is you're doing. They aren't used to men who— You're a trump!"
"Oh, pickles," he said. "Where's that waiter? I say, we're all being awfully solemn; I thought this was going to be a jolly party? Miss Daintree——"
"Mr. Warrener?"
"Please talk."
"I'm going to talk later on," she said. "I'm going to talk like a mother to you."
"Won't you talk like yourself in the meanwhile? I don't want anything better."
Then she talked like herself; and the plates were changed, and the hour was pleasurable. It was a very uncommon hour, because her friend was so nice. The pretty girl's friend is nearly always an infliction, and makes mischief afterwards because she hasn't been sufficiently admired. It was such a pleasurable hour that Conrad knew a pang of regret in reflecting that there would be few more like it—Rosalind, no doubt, would flee from Blithepoint as soon as the other women. Would he meet her again? Of course she would drift into another Company; meet another man in another town. Damn!
"I'm going to miss that girl," he mused, "and know she's flirting with somebody else while I'm remembering her!"
"'The world,'" he exclaimed, indulging his weakness for quotation, "'is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those who feel!'" And neither Rosalind nor Tattie found it needful to inquire to which category he was assigning himself; there may be sentimental seconds even over a chateaubriand. He added, "Let me fill up that glass for you—you've nothing there but froth."
It was more than half-past three when the waiter abased himself in letting them out, and as they turned along the Parade, Tattie recollected that she had "promised to be with Miss Vavasour at four." They all stopped for a minute, and Conrad tried to look as if he didn't want her to go. However she went, and he and Rosalind sauntered on without her.
"What shall we do?" he said. "Shall we go and hear the band?"
"There isn't one in the afternoon this time of year."
"Not in the band-stand, but I think there is on the pier. The band-stand is retained chiefly as a rendezvous, I believe. When he says 'Where will you meet me this evening?' she always says 'Opposite the band-stand.'"
Rosalind replied, "How do you know?"
"I gather it. Pensive figures watch the clock, and look up and down. They all turn hopefully when they hear you, and scowl at you as you come in sight. I passed once in the evening; I felt myself such a general disappointment that I always walk on the other side now."
The man at the turnstiles told them that the orchestra was playing in the theatre; and as they drew close they heard it, but for some little time they could find no way inside. No charge was made for admission to the theatre in the afternoon, and only the entrance to the balcony was open. They saw nobody to guide them. There were no other footsteps on the pier; there was no sound but the plaintive music that they couldn't reach. They wandered round and round the terrace, trying locked doors.
The tide was out, and the sheen of the smooth wet sand was violet under a paling sky. Little white waves were hurrying, and in the faded distance the star of the lightship gleamed and hid.
Through the window of an unexpected office they spied the girl who sold the stall tickets in the evening. "Oh, yes!" she said, and ran out to show them where to go.
Only two or three figures inhabited the roomy balcony. Below, the body of the house was soulless, shrouded in white wrappers. Faint daylight touched the auditorium wanly, but gas jets yellowed the faces of the orchestra. In the narrow line of glare amid the emptiness, they played.
Rosalind and Conrad sat down in the last row, and spoke in low voices. He knew that the impression of the scene was going to linger with him after she had gone.
In a few minutes she whispered, "Let's go on the terrace again," and they crept to the door.
"We couldn't talk in there," she said.... "Look here! what you were saying to Tattie: I want you to tell me straight, I don't know anything about you—can you afford to do all that?"
"Oh yes," he said; "that's all right."
"But really? Tell me the truth. How well off are you?"
"Oh, well! ... I'm very well off."
"Because if you're going to miss the money, there's another way out, that's why. I shouldn't forgive myself if I put you in a hole; I bar that sort of thing. Lunch and flowers are all very well, but the other's rather steep."
"I sha'n't miss the money."
"Honour bright?"
"Honour bright!"
"Oh well, then! It's awfully good of you, I sha'n't forget it," she said. "'Warrener' is really your name, isn't it?"
"I thought you understood that at the time."
"Yes," she said, "I did. I only wondered for a moment—I'm sorry."
"Oh, it's nothing," he answered.... "You know what I want you to tell me?"
"What?"
"About yourself. What can I do for you?"
"Oh, you needn't count me or Tattie. We don't want anything."
"That's all bosh. But you don't come in with the rest—I want to do more than that for you. Treat me as a pal. You're on the rocks, and I'm not; I've been there, and I know what it means. Let me give you a hundred to set you right."
"You want to give me a hundred pounds?" She threw back her astonished face at him—she was all white throat and eyes. "D' ye like me so much?"
"Damnably!" said Conrad.
The music had stopped, and now the bandsmen came hurrying past them. They stood looking shoreward, in a pause. On the dusk of the Parade the chain of electric globes quivered into light.
"It's rather rough on you," she murmured. "Isn't it? I've always drawn the line. It's no good."
"I didn't think it was. I shouldn't have told you if you hadn't asked me. I know; if a man cared about you, you'd expect him to want to marry you."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Oh, why not? Only I'm one of the men who aren't designed for husbands. I could make a beautiful lover—while it lasted; a very staunch friend—to a man, or a woman—all my life; but everybody has his limitations. Women are just the same. There are women who are made to be daughters—they're perfect as daughters; but they should never marry. There are women who're meant for mothers. They should never marry—I mean they make very poor wives. Not many of us are first-class all round. Still that's nothing to do with it. I haven't asked you for anything, and I'm not going to. If you had been—different, well, for my own sake, I should have been very glad! I never played 'Faust,' though, everybody's morality begins somewhere—it's just my luck that I've got fond of a girl who isn't 'different.' But there it is! We needn't talk about it. Put that aside, and let me help you as if I were your brother. I don't feel like your brother, but you can trust me just as much. I quite understand. I'm not vain enough to suppose you like me, but I quite understand that it would be 'no use' if you did."
She looked beyond him pensively, and pensively she hummed:—
"'What is the use of loving a girl
If the girl don't love you?
What is the use of loving a girl
When you know she don't want yer to?'"
"Don't do that," said Conrad. "I'm trying to talk to you like a chum. If you sing that song, I shall kiss you."
"Well, what do you want me to say?" she asked, strolling on.
"I don't want you to say anything. You'll get the money for the others in the morning, and I'll send you the hundred during the day."
"You're not to!" she exclaimed. "I don't need it, I swear I don't. You're not to send Tattie or me a shilling. If you do, I'll send it back."
"Why?"
"Because I don't need it, that's why."
"No it isn't. It's because you don't believe what I've said. My dear girl, I don't suppose I shall ever see you again after you leave here. When do you go?"
"We go to-morrow."
"You and Tattie? I mean 'Miss Lascelles'?"
"Oh, 'Tattie' doesn't hurt. Yes, she's going to stay—we're going to be together for a little while."
"Where? Don't you want me to ask?"
"London," she said.
"Have you got any people there?"
"No.... The only relation that counts is in the country now. Now mind! You're not to send anything for us two, or you'll offend me. Whatever you send will go to the others, all of it."
"Have it your own way," he said quietly.
They walked once round the terrace without speaking.
"Are you angry?" she asked.
"You've hurt rather. You've pitched it back at me. I don't mean the beastly money, but the intention. I think you might have trusted me. On my honour, I'd have taken no advantage of it!"
After another pause, she said:
"I'm a fool to tell you, but I can't help it.... I'm not on the stage any more, I'm not hard up; I'm—married."
"Married?"
"I've been married five years."
"Good Lord!" he said. "Well— Not on the stage? What are you doing here then?"
"I wasn't acting; I only came down to be in it all again. I—" her smile was wistful, "I was 'trying back'; I wanted to feel as I used to feel—I was dull."
He nodded comprehension; "Oh yes! I've done a lot of 'trying back' myself.... Do you care for him?"
She gave the faintest shrug.
"I wish you weren't going away," he sighed. "I shall often see you again?"
"We're the only people left on the pier," said Rosalind. "Don't you think we're having more than our twopenn'orth?"
"I shall go to town on Wednesday," he told her, as they turned homeward.
"Shall you?"
"You haven't answered what I asked you."
"I don't know," she said. "Besides you'll soon forget that you wanted to."
"If I don't forget?"
"Well— You may write to me."
"Where?"
"I'll post you a line before I leave," she promised. "We shall leave as early as we can—as soon as we've done your business for you; I sha'n't see you before I go. By-the-bye, I don't know if you're staying at the hotel where we lunched?—there'll be letters for you from the Company to-morrow, too."
"No, I'm at the Grand," he said. "My Christian name is 'Conrad.'"
It seemed a very short distance to Corporation Road. It seemed untrue that it was only four days since he had stood at the door with her for the first time. They went up the steps, and she did not turn the knob.
"Are you coming in?" she murmured. "I daresay Tattie is back."
"Do you know I think I'd rather say 'au revoir' to you alone."
"Au revoir," she said. Her hand was formal. He was rather chilled.
"You mean to post me that line?" he questioned.
She nodded. And then in the darkness of the doorway, she laughed, and began to hum the song that he had warned her not to sing.