Twopence Coloured (15 page)

“Richard Gissing’s been in front to-night,” she said, to the room at large.

“I know,” said Miss Lambert. “I spoke to him.”

“So did I,” said Miss Maxwell, not without slight
haughtiness
. “I spoke to him a lot.”

“He’s a Real Good Sort, is Dick Gissing,” said Miss Lambert, who was never above a little sentiment. “And I have Reason to Know.”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Maxwell. “He’s a Terrible
Gentleman
.”

By which Miss Maxwell meant, not that Mr. Gissing was a terrible gentleman, but that he was, to a very advanced degree, a gentleman.

“He acts in Shaw a whole lot, doesn’t he?” asked Miss True.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Miss Lambert. “I’ve seen him once. How’d you come to know him, Jackie?”

“Oh, I just met him,” said Jackie….

“It was from him, really,” added Jackie, softly, “that I got that book.”

And a long and heavy silence fell over the whole
dressing-room
.

“Well,” said Miss Lambert, at last. “I’m sure you couldn’t do much Better.”

For Miss Lambert was in a moral mood to-night.

The rest of the evening passed off very simply and quietly.

He met her, as arranged, in the front of the house, and they walked together, not speaking very much, through the deserted streets — where it was already snowing and the pavements wore a thin bright carpet of deadening white — straight to his hotel.

Here he gave her a supper such as she had not had for a very long while, and which, after a long period in rooms, reminded her rather unpleasantly of the warmer things of life she had forsaken: and here he told her a lot about himself, and here she too described much of her early life, and her present circumstances and feelings.

And they lingered a long while over their coffee, the room becoming more and more deserted, and themselves becoming more and more mute.

And the hour grew very late, but they sat on….

And then, with extraordinary suddenness, he got up, and said that he must see her home. But because he had confessed, a little while before, to having a very bad sore throat, she said that she would not let him see her home, and that he must go straight to bed. And as she seemed to be in earnest, he sat down again, and there followed a rather sickening
and dull argument about it, and it was at last decided that he should put her into a taxi.

After some difficulty a taxi was found, and he came out with her into the snow, which was now about half an inch thick, to see her into it. (She was too tired and weak to protest against this.)

And she took her place on a cold black leather seat, and he slammed the door on her, and gave inaudible instructions to the man in front. And “This
is
paid for!” he shouted through the window, and “Good-bye!” and “Good-bye,” said Jackie, and smiled and waved her hand. And he smiled and went inside.

He was a long time starting, was this taxi-man, and wasn’t at all sure about his doors being fastened properly, and had to get out twice to wind himself up again. But he did get going at last, and the hotel swept slowly out of sight.

And she was alone, with the glistening snow, and the
taximan’s
heavy back, and the snarl of changing gears, and the mystery and coldness of her own existence. 

T
HREE weeks later “Little Girl” came into Town. The first night passed off with Mafeking applause: the Press next morning was moderate in its acclamation: and it settled down immediately into a steady run.

Jackie, of course, returned to West Kensington: but she did not spend all the time she had apart from the theatre in this district. On the contrary, being now, in a quiet way,
enormously
popular in the chorus, she was receiving constant nightly invitations on all sides. These were, of course, often of a rather wholesale nature — consignments of The Girls being requisitioned in a very callous if palatial manner by some flaunting Crœsus desirous of entertaining his friends; and at these Jackie’s pride naturally took offence. But there were others, including one or two suppers and dances on the stage, given by the management, and in the nature of
command
ceremonies, which she accepted.

And she was taken out a good deal by Mr. Tom Rocket and Mr. Merril Marsden.

Mr. Tom Rocket was a slightly competent young comedian of thirty, who played a small part (that of a clergyman) in “Little Girl,” and who had, at a quite early stage of the tour, betrayed a preference for Jackie. He was a young man with an ill face, thwarted aspirations, a common manner, but a character of strong sentiment and principle. Indeed he had first been drawn towards Jackie on account of her moral integrity and as one in possession of what he termed her sex’s Most Precious Jewel — to wit, chastity, which he took for granted (by the way) on quite insufficient evidence.

He had, in fact, conceived a slow admiration for her which had become daily more obvious and had at last culminated
in his confessing his love for her. Upon which a flood-gate of metaphor had been loosed upon the situation, the principal and most recurrent comparison being that of Jackie’s to God’s Snows — which she was (he said) as White as — if not as Cold — (which he sometimes thought her). He also
sometimes
made more particularized references to Mont Blanc, which foreign summit he had not personally visited, but credited with the utmost detachment, purity, and chill.

Jackie, who had from the first assumed a passive, and if possible dampening rôle in this affair, at once said (according to a stale formula) that she was Very Sorry. She apologized, in fact, for being as White as God’s Snows, but made it clear how difficult it was for her…. There was really no solution to the situation. He, however (and perhaps sympathizing with her difficulty), laid no blame upon her shoulders, and was not exacting. Further to being as White as God’s Snows nothing was expected of her.

A kind of mutual agreement therefore arose, that she should go out to lunch, take walks, or visit the pictures with him — merely Being, within the time allotted, as White as God’s Snows, and considering her part of the business
fulfilled
. What satisfaction to either party there was in this, she left to him; but he appeared to be perfectly satisfied. The two facts — first, that he had a wife in London (understood to be of a far from Alpine nature) — second, that he himself was a confirmed drunkard — while leading Mr. Rocket into constant metaphorical beatings of the breast and declarations that he was not Good Enough for her, and could Never Come to her with Clean Hands — never succeeded in striking him as adequate causes for breaking the attachment. And when Jackie begged (as she so often did) that he would forget the matter and say no more, the instant threats, on his part, not only of self-destruction, but of Going Berserk (which was obviously much worse) caused her to conciliate him with the promise to remain that Something Worth Living For which he so emphatically declared she was. For although Jackie had been threatened with the self-destruction of her suitors ever since the age of thirteen, the whole manifestations of their
devotions to her had been so utterly incomprehensible to her, that she still had a lurking fear that her imagination was lacking somewhere, and that they might. Also in this case there was a question of drink, wherein she thought, perhaps, she should not fail him.

All this did not pass by unnoticed by the company of “Little Girl,” even while yet on tour; and soon the two names were coupled and it was rumoured around on all sides that the key to the situation was to be found in whether Mr. Tom Rocket could, or whether Mr. Tom Rocket could not, Keep off the Whisky. An opportunity for
highmindedness
being immediately scented out, as well as for
reconciliation
and disinterested altruism, the thing grew at an intensive rate, until at last it came back to Jackie, who was told, quietly but firmly one night, by a mutual acquaintance, that Mr. Rocket was the best fellow in the world, but what Jackie had to do was to Keep Mr. Rocket off the Whisky. Now in so far as Jackie had not entered the theatrical business (as was partially suggested) to keep her associates off the Whisky, and in so far as she sincerely felt that Mr. Rocket’s Whisky was, fundamentally, his own problem, she took some offence at this friendly caution. She was also angered by the coupling of her name with Mr. Rocket, and decided in future to treat him with greater coolness. This, however, in face of his too subservient infatuation, not to say further threats of Norse behaviour, she was not able properly to do, and the thing dragged on until they came to London.

Here, however, and on the third night of the show, he succumbed entirely to liquor, and passing Jackie in a passage, assumed a misty kind of appraising attitude, and affirmed, in a thick voice, not that Jackie was as White as God’s Snows, but Wizegossnose — which was an ill-timed, if not definitely frivolous abbreviation of the familiar sentiment. Jackie passed by with an unfeigned look of disgust, and the next evening, intending not to speak to him again, very obviously avoided him and hoped that the thing was now at an end.

But shortly after the interval she was arrested in a corner of the stage by one Mr. Phillip Genaro, a young Italian singer
who had a number to himself and was as highminded as any, who asked her what she had been Doing with Poor Tom.

Having expressed complete innocence, she was informed that the gentleman was at that very moment having to be Held Down, and kept away at all costs from dressing-room Razors, which he was glancing at in a sinister fashion. Jackie again expressed innocence and indifference, but Mr. Genaro, taking this to be mere hauteur, recommended tolerance as a motto in life, and begged that they would Patch it Up. This presumption of a relationship again angered Jackie extremely; but seeing Mr. Rocket, a few minutes later, gazing at her from a corner in apparently genuine desolation,
dutifully
went over to him and reinstated the old conditions.

It was thus that apart from her work at the theatre she was seeing something of Mr. Rocket at this time: and she was also seeing something of Mr. Merril Marsden, the
gentleman
who had spoken to her at the dinner in Manchester. Mr. Marsden, in fact, was by now in the habit of asking her to lunch at least once every week, and that with
apparently
disinterested motives. She attended these meals solely in her capacity of First Intellectual Chorus Girl, and no reference was made either to her character or beauty. Indeed, the purely scholastic atmosphere obtaining on these occasions would have tired Jackie a great deal, had she not been alive to the compliment of his invitations: for whereas, in her dealings with Mr. Tom Rocket, the sole topic of absorbing interest was Jackie herself, in her dealings with Mr. Marsden the sole topic of absorbing interest was Mr. Marsden himself. Mr. Marsden was interested in himself to a degree far beyond spasmodic egotism. He had reached, rather, a phase wherein he could (and did without cessation) treat himself
academically
, being quite willing to have new lights thrown upon him, fresh data collected about him, or unusual schools of thoughts rising about him; and remaining admirably broadminded, even if, in the last resort, dogmatic concerning himself. In fact Jackie’s meetings with him (in which he did nearly all the talking) at last resolved themselves into little else but laboured and sober debates upon himself.

From the first few meetings the thing was detached, and a First Intellectual Chorus Girl’s interest in the matter implicit. “Of course, I happen to be
born
that way,” Mr. Marsden would explain in these early stages. Or, “Of course, That is
Me
(all over).” Or, “Of course, I can’t help it, but that Simply Happens to be My Way of Looking at things.” Or, “I have no doubt I may be wrong, but I simply cannot
help
it
.” There was but the lightest disparagement of
differently
disposed individuals: he was merely giving Jackie an elementary schooling in the mysteries of his character. Later he became more detailed, and a quantity of other axioms and immutable laws of his personality transpired. It
transpired
, for instance, that Mr. Marsden was not Easily Roused, but when so, an implacable and even dangerous opponent. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was Extremely Sensitive, though he showed (for such was his character) Little of this. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was (though he said it himself) an Artist to his Finger Tips. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was of course (and this perhaps was his most significant characteristic) Incurably Frivolous. It transpired that he was Very Sorry for this, but it could not be helped. He was, in fact, Cursed with a Sense of Humour. At least Mr. Marsden said that he was cursed by this. But as he also spent a great part of his time Thanking God that he had been Blessed with a Sense of Humour (at least), one didn’t quite know where one was. Also one waited for manifestations of his affliction (or good fortune) without result.

With this Sense of Humour — and in the same way as Mr. Rocket had taken Jackie’s spotlessness for granted — Mr. Marsden immediately credited Jackie. Indeed this was where, he explained, they were in such sympathy; and their lunches together generally ended in their sitting dreamily over their coffee rather morosely thanking God that they had been cursed with a sense of Humour.

Jackie, to whom all this meant little, and whose sincere secret conviction was that Mr. Marsden was a damned fool, nevertheless entered, in an apparently whole-hearted spirit, into these debates; and was always ready at hand to come
up and consider his character in a new light. And apart from the compliment he paid her by seeking her suggestions, he invariably gave her what appeared to her to be an extremely good lunch, promised her his paternal protection, and (what was of graver import) spoke of a play in which he was
interested
, and in which there was a part, he said, suited to her, which he might get for her. He also promised her many introductions to influential persons without keeping his promise.