The adventurous lady

by J. C. Snaith

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.”