Ada Vernham, actress

Contents

FACE

II. AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE ... 8

III. PHILIP BASING 19

Chapter I Bogus

They stood outside the door of the Assembly Rooms. The proprietor, Abraham Llewelyn, stood inside. He barred their ingress.

‘ I don’t care what there is of yours. It’s mine till I am paid my rent. You don’t any of you set foot inside my place until I am.’

Douglas Faber, * first old man,’ endeavoured to induce him to hear reason.

‘You’ve no right to detain our things. We’re not your debtors. Haven’t you sense enough to see that we’re even greater sufferers than you are. You won’t improve your position by making ours worse.’

Mr Llewelyn put up a dirty forefinger. He wagged it at Douglas Faber.

‘ This is a bilk, my lad. It’s the second bilk

A

I’ve had this season. You’re a friend of the bilker—’

Then came an instant interruption from Faber.

* I’m nothing of the kind.’

‘ Then what are you ? ’

‘ I’m one of the poor devils whom he’s bilked. Don’t I tell you that he owes me part of three weeks, and the whole of the fourth weeks salary. Does that look as if he were my friend ? Don’t be an idiot ! Try and see if we can’t improve the situation by pulling together. Let’s give the usual show to-night, if this sort of weather keeps on there ought to be a good house — and let’s share out the treasury.’

Mr Llewelyn put his hands into his trousers pockets. He eyed the little, anxious crowd. And he winked.

‘ And what may your idea of sharing out the treasury be ? There won’t be a pound in the place — I never saw a worse show than yours, it really isn’t good enough to draw the dead heads ! And when it comes to sharing out a pound — what you call sharing out — why, it won’t bring me the price of my gas ! ’ He broke into sudden passion. ‘You go and be damned! You’re nothing but a lot of swindling mouchers, that’s what you are I’

BOGUS

Before they suspected his intention, drawing back quickly, he slammed the door in their faces. The action was followed outside by a sort of spasm of involuntary silence. They could hear him bolting and barring.

Leonard Hargreaves — ‘juvenile lead’ — laughed acidly. It was cold and exposed in front of the Assembly Rooms. The sea wind, rushing from the sands round the corner of the street, dashed the rain into their faces. They moved uneasily inside their clothing, as they glanced furtively into each other’s eyes.

It was Cliffe Davies — ‘character’ — who broke the silence. His tone was more bitter than his words. His round face twitched.

‘ This looks like good biz ! A case of “ shutter ” with a vengeance.’

* Does he really mean that he won’t let us have our wardrobes ? ’

The speaker was a girl on her first tour, who had dreamed dreams of the profession. Davies answered her.

‘ Devilish good seeming if he doesn’t.’

‘ But what shall I do? Nearly all my things are in the dressing room. I only have a small box at my diggings, and I’ve only got a few shillings in my purse.’

The girl began to cry. A woman whose face suggested drink, slipped her arm through hers, as if to comfort her. Davies continued :

‘ If you’ve got a few shillings, my dear, you’ve got that much more than I have. I’m stony. It’ll have to be a case of busking on the beach.’ He looked up at the drifting clouds. ‘ Though while this watering pot keeps on emptying ’twill be to busk in vain.’

A woman came round the corner of the street hurriedly. She hastened towards them, as it fearful of being late. They received her with vacant looks.

‘ What’s the matter ? ’ she inquired. ‘ Is treasury over ? ’

Davies replied. ‘ It is, — “ for ever and for ever, world without end. Amen.” The English Comedy Company is over too.’

The woman seemed to stagger. One could see, through her veil, that her pale face went paler.

‘What do you mean?’

Douglas Faber took the words from Davies’ lips.

‘ That brute Montgomerie’s bolted. He’s taken every stiver away with him. God knows where he’s gone to/

BOGUS

He finished by raining a volley of curses on the head of the absent man.

‘ Is there no treasury at all ? ’

‘ Not a — farthing.’

There was silence. The woman leaned against the wall. They looked at her.

‘That will be — that will be very inconvenient for me — but how about the show to-night?’

‘There won’t be any. Llewelyn’s locked us out.’

‘ Locked us out ! But how about our wardrobes ? ’

‘Yes, how about them? I should like to know how about them. Llewelyn says that we shan’t have them till the rent is paid. I can’t pay it. I don’t know if you can.’

The woman passed from passivity to excitement. She moved away from the wall, holding out her hands in front of her.

‘ But I must have my wardrobe ! — I must ! — It’s all I have in the world.’

Faber shrugged his shoulders, and was still. Davies pulled the collar of his coat up higher about his ears.

‘ I ’m bound to say that my wardrobe isn’t worth the mint,’ he muttered. ‘ I wouldn’t like to back myself to spout it for a thick ’un.’

The woman seemed surprised that she was able to convey so little of her own excitement to the others. She repeated her assertion.

* I must have my wardrobe ! — I must ! *

‘ Then, if I were you, I’d get it ! *

Faber, standing sideways as he said this, winked with the eye which was farthest from her. She, unconscious of the wink, took his words as if they had been meant in earnest.

‘ I will ! She turned to the door which Mr Llewelyn had closed. • Where’s the knocker or the bell?’

Faber still spoke ironically.

‘ There doesn’t appear to be either a knocker or a bell. Llewelyn doesn’t favour such luxuries at his establishment. It wouldn’t do. You’ll have to knock with your fist, or a stone, or the heel of your boot. You’ll try your heel, if you take my advice.’

She struck the door with her clenched fist, making no impression on the massive panel. Ernest Carruthers — ‘utility’ — held up his hand.

‘May I offer you my stick?’

She took it — a stout, oak sapling. She struck two or three vigorous blows with it, against the door. A window opened overhead, just as a

BOGUS 7

constable came strolling up. Mr Llewelyn looking out, hailed the man in blue.

‘ Evan Evans, move those people away from there.’

The woman called to him.

‘ Mr Llewelyn, you have my wardrobe. You must let me in, please. I want to get it — I must have it ! I don’t owe you anything ! ’

Mr Llewelyn ignored her utterly. He addressed the constable.

‘ First those vagabonds swindle me out of my rent, then they want to destroy my property. If they want anything from me, let them apply to the police station for it, and I’ll apply to the police station too — then we’ll see ! Do you hear what I tell you, Evan Evans; move them away from here — right away ! ’

In spite of their expostulations, Evan Evans moved them away — for, in that town, Abraham Llewelyn was a man of standing.

Chapter II

She had been in tight places before — heaven knew ! — but this place which she was in now bade fair to be the very tightest. She was penniless— which is about the hardest thing that can befall a woman. Actually without a farthing. And hungry. A stranger. And in debt. She owed for food and lodging — being well aware that her landlady regarded her with something stronger than suspicion. The major part of the company had been on less than half salaries practically since the tour had started. She had eked out the pittance which Mr Montgomerie had doled out to her with what she still had had left of her own. Now her own store was exhausted. Business having been bad, it had been surmised that, as usual, there would not be a full treasury, but the sanguine manager had declared that a remittance would be sent to him from town, and that, in any case, he would do his best. So, with a consciously anxious heart, she had hoped that she would at least receive enough to enable her to free herself from debt.

That her anxiety had been justified was proved by the fact that the enterprising manager, taking his courage with both hands, levanting with the entire weekly receipts, had left the members of the ‘ English Comedy Company,’ for all he knew or cared, without the wherewithal in their pockets with which to buy themselves a crust of bread and cheese, stranded in that remote Welsh watering-place some three hundred miles away from town, and with their personal possessions at the mercy of the keepers of their lodgings, and, particularly, of the defrauded proprietor of the Assembly Rooms, in which building they had been performing all the week.

Miss Vernham did not know what to do. She was feeling hungry, tired, and heartsick — halfdazed. She did not know where to go. Instinct told her that it would be absurd to return to her lodgings till she had some tale ready to tell her landlady. She wandered aimlessly along the front. The rain had increased ; she had no umbrella; the wind was blowing half a gale, possibly it was her mental condition which caused her to feel physically cold— the farther she went the more she shivered. At last, in desperation, turning, she went swiftly back to her room.

Mr Leonard Hargreaves was sauntering on the pavement in the rain, apparently awaiting her approach. She disliked this man more than any other member of the company, which was saying not a little.

‘ I want to speak to you,’ he said. * Can I come in? I’m getting moist.’

She accorded him permission with a movement of her head, being almost too spent for speech. He might not be to her taste, but she felt, at the moment, that anything was better than being left alone and helpless. As the door was opened, the landlady darted out from her own regions at the back ; then, seeing that her lodger was attended, she withdrew. The pair entered the apartment which served Miss Vernham as bed and sitting-room. As he stood his umbrella in the fireplace, Hargreaves looked about him.

‘You’re snug in here ! ’

The woman moved her shoulders. The place was cheap and nasty, but, knowing, as she did, that she was hanging over the very edge of the outer ditch, it had suddenly become to her almost ii luxurious. She dropped on to a chair with a sigh. With his back to the fireplace, he eyed her steadily, as if he were appraising her.

‘You’re a fine woman, my dear, though you’ve been oyerdoing it. You ought to do better for yourself than this. Lift up your veil.’

She did not do as he bade her.

‘ What do you want ? ’

He laughed — without answering her question.

‘Nice man, Montgomerie! Stony lot of mourners he’s left behind him ! ’

‘ Are they all hard up ? ’

‘ Skinned ! the lot of them. You couldn’t collect half a sovereign from the entire batch. One or two of them have been having a shot at me, but I’m not taking any. “ Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” That’s my motto. And as for alms, I never give them.’

‘ Have you got money ? ’

‘ A pound or two, my dear, a pound or two ! ’ He rattled some coins in his pocket, and laughed again. ‘ I don’t fancy Montgomerie has used me quite so badly as he has the rest of you. That’s between ourselves. I knew a thing or two about him, you see, and it wouldn’t have done. Besides, perhaps I may have a little pot of my own laid by. There aren’t only paupers in the world.’

She showed no disposition to speak when he ceased, but sat in silence, as if in thought Presently, she raised her veil, which action he immediately approved.

‘That’s better, you never ought to hide a face like yours. By Jove ! you’re a fine woman, upon my soul, you are. You ought to be doing a lot better than knocking about at what are, by rights, nothing but one night stands.’ She continued silent. ‘ How has he left you ? *

‘Without a penny in the world.’

He laughed again, as if the idea of her destitution amused him.

' Do you know that, if you had liked, I believe you might have gone halves with him. If you had raised your finger, he’d have taken you in as partner. Only you’re so infernally stand-off.’

Rising, she turned her back on him, as if in obedience to a feeling of unconquerable repulsion. Taking off her gloves, she felt her jacket with her fingers. He watched her, seemingly oblivious of the significance of her manner towards himself.

‘ You’re wet.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘ And hungry ? ’

‘ I’m almost starving.’

‘ Have you paid up here ? 1

‘ Then what are you going to do ? * Once more she moved her shoulder, still keeping her back towards him. ‘ If you’ll condescend to let me see the front of you, I’ll tell you what I’ve come for.’ She hesitated ; then slowly faced him. ‘ I’ve come to give you a helping hand. I guessed to what extent your pockets were lined, though you’ve been proud enough to have them lined with millions.’ She yet kept silence. ‘Well, what do you say?’

‘ Thank you.’

‘ Is that all ? ’

‘ What else would you have me say ? I can but thank you/

She stood fronting him, motionless as if she had been a statue, a bright red spot flaming on each of her white cheeks. Something in her attitude, or her manner, seemed continually to appeal to his sense of humour. Again he laughed.

‘You’re a caution, upon my soul you are. Humanise yourself, my dear ; come off that pedestal of yours, and let’s be sensible. Look here, why shouldn’t we chum it together, you and I?’

‘ What do you mean ? ’

‘You know very well what I mean, though, if you want it straight from the shoulder, you shall have it. Just come and live with me ; I’ll be your friend, at any rate until you get a shop. I’ll do the paying.’

She shuddered — he could scarcely have failed to notice it ; but, if he did, he showed no sign of having done so.

! I’m a married woman.’

‘And I’m a married man. What’s the odds? Both our other halves seem missing.’

‘ I can’t — I won’t.’

‘You think again. Upon my soul, I’ll do things for you as well as I can. I’ll pay up here, and we’ll go up together by the afternoon express to town. When they find out here how the land lies, they’ll turn you out with nothing but what you stand up in, and what will you do then ? ’

She moved her lips as if to moisten them.

‘Lend me enough money to take me up to London. I’ll pay it you back.’

‘ Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; don’t I tell you that’s my motto ? Nothing for nothing — that’s me. I’ll give you free quarters till you get a shop, that’s what my offer amounts to, and a deucedly liberal and gentlemanly offer too. If you don’t take it, you’ll be homeless before the sun goes down, and perhaps somewhere worse, before another sun get ups. What are you kicking at ? I’m not a bad sort of fellow, upon my soul I’m not — in my way. Any one might think that I was asking for a favour, instead of offering to do one.’

She seemed to attempt to answer — and to fail. Instead, dropping on her knees, she hid her face in the dirty counterpane which covered the bed. He played the part of critical observer.

‘ I do believe that you’ll make an actress yet, I’m hanged if I don’t. What are you supposed to be doing now — praying? or doing a weep? I’m not an ogre, that you should be afraid of me. Come, don’t be such an idiot. Get up, and give me a kiss, and tell me that you’ll be a good old pal.’

Crossing the room, he placed his hand, with the intention of a caress, upon her shoulder. Regaining an unsteady perpendicular, she held out her hand to keep him from her.

‘ Don’t touch me — don’t !’

It seemed impossible to wound his feelings ; he only laughed at her.

* Will you come ? ’

‘ Is that your final answer ? ’

‘ Lend me enough money to take me to London. Do ! do ! Why won’t you ? I’ll give it you back again. I promise you I will.’

4 Is that your final answer ? ’

She looked at him fixedly, shuddering as she did so.

‘ I can’t do what you want me to — and I won’t.’

‘ Then don’t, and be hanged to you ; if you like that better, you know very well what awaits you.’

Taking his umbrella from the fireplace, and his hat from the mantelpiece, he went out of the room. In a moment, however, he returned, holding out his hand, with several sovereigns in his outstretched palm.

‘ Have you changed your mind ? Wouldn’t you like some of those ? Just think.’

She snatched a couple of sovereigns.

‘ Lend me them. Do ! do ! ’

‘ Will you come with me ? ’

‘ No ! No ! ’

‘Then you give me back my money. If you don’t I’ll send for a policeman, and give you in charge as soon as look at you — you thief ! ’

Seeing from his face that what he said he meant, she held out to him the two sovereigns. Taking them from her without a word, he passed again from the room. She heard him stamp along the passage, and bang the front door as he went out into the street.

The bang was still reverberating when her landlady appeared in the room.

‘ I’ve come for you to pay your bill, miss, according to your promise.’

The woman was Welsh, with a copious supply of English at her tongue’s command. Doubtless, too, almost as much in want of money as her lodger. A victim, also, of previous lodgers, with a rooted and, not impossibly, well founded suspicion of the principles and practices of impecunious and unattached young women. When she found that no money was forthcoming, or likely to be, she favoured Miss Vernham with the full benefit of her opinion ; explaining what persons of her character were for, what ought to be done to and with them, and what she would do with them, if she only had the chance.

The hopeless, hungry woman could do nothing to stem the torrent. ‘ But she should go at once,’ screamed the landlady ; ‘ a creature like her should no longer be allowed to darken the doors of a respectable house.’

Miss Vernham begged to be allowed to rest for a few moments, to have time to collect her thoughts.

‘ Not an instant,’ screamed the woman.

‘At least,’ implored Miss Vernham, ‘allow her to

B take with her some portion of her scant possessions.’

* Not a rag,’ screamed the woman ; ‘ it was like her impudence to ask such a thing. She might think herself lucky to get away scot free without being charged with swindling — she should be charged with swindling if she didn’t go at once. Now then, out you go ! ’ The landlady threw the door wide open. ‘ Am I to fetch a policeman ? Get out of my house ! Don’t stop to put your gloves and veil on in my house — put them on in the street — you shameless hussy ! ’

Miss Vernham was moving to do as she was bid when there came a sharp rat-tat-tat at the hall door knocker. With an exclamation the landlady went to see who was there, pulling the room door to behind her as she went. With a sigh of relief Miss Vernham sat down on the side of the bed — in her extremity even another moment’s breathing space was welcome. Steps approached the room. The landlady opened the door, saying in considerably modulated tones : —

‘ Some one to see you.’

Having admitted the visitor, she disappeared.

Chapter III

SUPPOSING that it was Leonard Hargreaves returned, Miss Vernham did not even rise from her seat on the side of the bed to welcome him. But it was not Mr Hargreaves, nor any one like him ; this was a young man of not more than twenty-six or seven, tall and slender, with a slight moustache, an almost boyish face, big bright smiling eyes, and fair hair which curled all over his head. He was dressed in a light tweed suit. His scarlet necktie was tied in a neat bow, the long ends of which, with a sort of poetic license, strayed outside his waistcoat. He carried in his gloved hands a straw hat and an umbrella.

Miss Vernham was so surprised by this apparition that she continued to sit on the bed and stare.

‘ Miss Vernham ? But I see it is Miss Vernham.’ His voice was musical, pleasant, gay, as became his appearance. ‘ I must apologise for this very unceremonious intrusion, but I am leaving to-day, so that there was no time to write to ask you to grant me the favour of an appointment I am Philip Basing.’

By this time she had risen, and when he stopped, she bowed, being still at a loss for words. He seemed to have supposed that the mention of his name ought to have caused her some sort of emotion, and to be disappointed that she showed none.

‘The name is not familiar?’

‘ I beg your pardon. I did not quite catch it ! ’

‘ Philip Basing. I am the author of one or two little dramatic pieces which have been favourably received in town, and of other things.’

Again he seemed to watch for some symptom of emotion. All that she felt was a sensation of dull surprise. What did this radiant young gentleman want here bringing with him a whiff of remembrance from what, to her, was the land of ghosts ? Seeing that she was obviously incapable of vouchsafing him that small medicum of flattery which his soul desired, he laughed outright, lightly, sunnily.

‘ I see that my name is not known even in the dramatic world so well as I had hoped. Never mind, one of these days it shall be known the whole world over. Perhaps you will assist me to make it known/

She did not understand him in the least — showing her want of comprehension by the vacant look which was on her face.

‘ I ? How shall I do that ? *

* That is the secret. May I sit down ? Thanks. I was at the Assembly Rooms last night, and I saw you act/

‘ Indeed/ Perceiving that he expected her to say something else, she said it : ‘ Pm afraid that you were one ot a very scanty audience, and that you were disappointed/

‘ Disappointment supposes expectation. Since I expected nothing, I could scarcely be disappointed. It was a rainy night. I was in want of an umbrella, and, as a matter of fact, I was greatly surprised — by you/

‘ By me ? * Her voice assumed the tone of unconscious hauteur which was the outcome of the constant necessity to be upon her guard. * I can hardly imagine that you could have been agreeably surprised by anything I did/

Leaning his elbow on the table by which he was seated, he rested his head upon his hand and regarded her with something of laughter, and something of appraisement in his eyes.

‘ People of our profession are at liberty to utter plain truths to one another, even when they are of opposite sexes, and yet stand excused. So, Miss Vernham, you must suffer me. Are you aware how lovely you are — upon the stage ? *

The last three words were added as if by an afterthought — almost as if he were suggesting that the clear, cold light had revealed to him the fact that her beauty extended no farther than the stage. Women of the theatre become so habituated to physical appraisement, that remarks which their sisters would, to say the least, regard askance, are passed by them unnoticed. She merely questioned his right, as it were, to comment.

‘ Are you an actor ? ’

He shook his head.

‘ I am a dramatist—as yet at the commencement of my career. Though, possibly, the full summer of that career may be nearer than the world supposes. I have taken the Soho Theatre in London, at which I propose shortly to produce, under what, I trust, will be favourable auspices, a three-act poetic play of my own. I have reason to anticipate that it will meet with, at least, a measure of success. My errand here is to offer you a part in it

She looked at him quickly, as if fearful that her ears had played her false.

‘ Offer me a part ? ’

‘Yes. I will be frank with you. From what I saw last night, I judged that your acting, shall we say, would bear improvement. Though I suppose you are not entirely an amateur.’

‘ I have been on the stage two years, and more.’

‘ So long as that ? I should hardly have thought it. I take it that you have not been trained in the best possible school. I mean — that is — that your experience has been provincial.’

‘ I have been trained in the school of necessity, playing whatever parts were offered.’

‘ Precisely. And not a bad training either, from the old timer’s point of view.’ He paused, as if he wished to say something else, without knowing exactly how to say it, then changed his intended theme. ‘ The part which I should offer you, you understand, would not be one of capital importance. Miss Graham — Agnes Graham — will be my leading lady, and your part would extend, perhaps, to something over three lengths. Assisted by the few hints which, I trust, you will allow me to give you during rehearsal, and by the charm of your personal appearance, I am inclined to think that you will do it justice.*

* It is very good of you to trust me. I will do my best. I have never appeared in town.*

‘No? I should tell you that the salary which I shall be able to offer you at first will not be a large one. My principal people will cost me a very great deal, and at the beginning I must be careful. Miss Graham is expensive ; so are my two leading men, John Tullett and Rayment. I am afraid that I shall not be able to commence with more than four guineas a week, with half salaries during rehearsals. If the piece meets with the favour I anticipate, and you are yourself successful, I shall have pleasure in materially increasing that sum, as the run proceeds.’

She seemed at a loss what to say to him, which, indeed, she was. The revulsion of feeling was so strange, so sudden, and so strong. The salary of which he spoke so lightly, seemed to her, in her then position, actual wealth. And then there was all that went with it. To have realised, in a moment, and such a moment ! the provincial mummer’s dream ; to be about to play to the world, the great, wide, generous world of London, instead of to the brain-bound odds and ends of Little Pedlington ; to have, in front of her, the prospect of creating an original r61e in an original play, by a coming dramatist, on a metropolitan stage. These things were, just then, too much for her, and they made of her a child. She behaved like a child, she cried.

Mr Basing half rose from his seat.

‘ My dear lady ! What is the matter ? *

‘You mustn’t ask me — it is because you have made me so happy — it is so sudden — but I won’t disappoint you. I promise you that — I will act better than I did last night.’

The words came from her in inchoate confusion. Although she might not have been aware of it, she was paying him the sort of compliment which he most cherished, she was appealing to the emotional side of his nature. He smiled gaily. So, leaning towards her across the little table, as his voice rose and fell in musical cadences, he became a young man inspired.