“No, we won’t. I promise you,” encouraged Mr. Bennet, “Do go on.”
“No, I’ll tell you what I’ll do . . . I’ll show you my press reports . . . mind you, though, as a show it was clean spoilt by Romeo. You’ve never seen such a stick as that man was . . . My goodness, he was a stick . . . Stick’s hardly the word . . . Well, I told him what I thought of him afterwards . . . quite quiet and dignified I was about it, because I wouldn’t demean myself by behaving any way but like a lady. Did he take it like a gentleman? Not a bit of it. He used language somethin’ dreadful.”
“Not to you?” said Mr. Bennet, looking quite ferocious
“Yes, to me . . . I was that upset, because I’m so sensitive. Would you think I was sensitive, Mr. Bennet?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bennet gallantly, “I would.”
“Won’t Popsy Wopsy finish up his gravy, den?” said Cousin Sophia.
“Of course I’m reserved,” said Mrs. Flower, “and it’s only those that know me really well that know how sensitive I am.”
“I know,” said Mr. Bennet.
The sparkling eyes were continually being rolled in his direction.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Flower with a deep sigh, “but you’re so sympathetic.”
“Do you think I am?” said Mr. Bennet.
“Wonderfully!” said Mrs. Flower, clasping her hands. “Running over with sympathy, you are . . . I’ve never in all my life met such a personality . . . Such sympathy, imagination and—er—and sympathy. You know, you ought to have been an actor.”
“Do you think so?” said Mr. Bennet in some surprise.
“Jus’ anozzer ’ickle spoonful, darling,” said Cousin Sophia, “to make Popsy a strong doggie.”
“Oh, I do,” said Mrs. Flower. “I felt it. I felt it as soon as I met you. The minute I set eyes on you I said to myself, ‘There’s a man that ought to have been an, actor.’”
“Fancy that now!” said Mr. Bennet, impressed.
“I did indeed. I wouldn’t say so if I hadn’t. I’ve never told a lie in all my life. Not from the cradle. And now I’ve got to know you better I say it all the more. Your voice and—er—eyes and face, and all that. You were born to it. Have you never really acted?”
“Never,” said Mr. Bennet.
Mrs. Flower raised her belladonna’d black-encircled eyes to the ceiling.
“One can hardly credit it,” she said. “Here’s a man formed by nature to be an actor, in face, voice, figure—–”
Mr. Bennet pulled down his waistcoat and made an ineffectual effort to look slim, “and—er—all that, and— he’s never acted.” A look of purpose came into her face, “but,” she went on, “you must act, Mr. Bennet. It’s never too late to act . . . we must get up some theatricals now . . . here. . . . What about Macbeth?”
“Well, what about him?” said Mr. Bennet, gazing at her ardently.
Mrs. Flower’s eyes dropped modestly before his ardour, then raised themselves . . .
“You see—you are Macbeth,” she said dramatically, “the courage, the—the tempestuous impulsiveness, the —the heroic mould, they’re all there. I knew they were. That was the first thing I thought about you. As soon as I set eyes on you I said to myself, ‘There’s a man that ought to be Macbeth!’ ”
She paused for effect, one hand upraised.
“Ask anyone if I didn’t,” she added sententiously, somewhat spoiling her speech by this anti-climax.
“B-but I don’t know anything about Macbeth,” said Mr. Bennet. “I told you I’d never had no education to speak of. I learnt ‘The Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus’ at school, but that’s all. I never learnt Macbeth.”
Mrs. Flower made another dramatic gesture as though she had come to some momentous decision.
“I know,” she said. “We’ll do it. We’ll get it up. We’ll do it for the village. We’ll arrange the scenes to-night. And you shall be Macbeth . . . Tell me,” she leant forward to him earnestly, “has no one really ever told you that you ought to have been an actor?”
“No,” said Mr. Bennet, evidently much impressed, “not till you did.”
They went into the drawing-room after dinner. Mrs. Flower found a Shakespeare and sat down near—very near—Mr. Bennet on the sofa.
“The first thing to do,” she said, “is to find a nice little scene and then to begin rehearsing. I simply long to see you as Macbeth . . . The courage—the tempestuous impulsiveness, the—the heroic mould . . . You,” she raised her eyes beseechingly, “you will do it, won’t you?—to please me.”
Mr. Bennet gazed at her ecstatically. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I don’t say I’ll be much good, but I’ll do it,” he gulped with emotion, “to please you.”
A far-away look came into Mrs. Flower’s eyes. She leant forward with a sudden jerk and fixed her eyes upon something invisible a few yards away that evidently roused in her deep emotion. She pointed a podgy forefinger at it. “Is this a dagger that I see before me?” she hissed dramatically.
Mr. Bennet followed the direction of her finger with open-mouthed amazement. “No,” he said soothingly, “it’s nothing to be frightened of. If you mean that thing on the mantelpiece, it’s only a little silver thing they gave me when I laid the foundation of the Cottage Hospital. It’s not a dagger.”
“And what are you going to do now, dear?” said Cousin Sophia to Felicity.
“I’m going up to Priscilla if I may, please,” said Felicity.
“Very nice, dear,” said Cousin Sophia vaguely, “very nice indeed. And Popsy and I are going to our little refuge to rest. You’ll come and see our little refuge, won’t you?”
Felicity followed her across the hall and down a little passage to a room at the end. It was a very comfortable little room with a sofa, deep chairs and a blazing fire. A glass of hot milk and a plate of biscuits stood on a table by the chair. “This is where I rest,” said Cousin Sophia, putting Popsy down upon a footstool in front of the fire. “I need such a lot of rest, dear, because I’m so delicate,” she said as she sat down and began to sip the hot milk, “and I have to take extra nourishment between meals because I simply don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive . . . Won’t you sit down, dear? You can nurse my little Popsy if he’ll let you. I’m sure you’d like that.”
“Thank you so much,” said Felicity, “but I think I’d rather go to Priscilla.”
Priscilla was sitting up, her eyes fixed eagerly on the door.
“Oh, Pins, darling,” she said, “I’ve been longing for you . . . Was everything awful?”
“Oh, no,” said Felicity cheerfully. “Of course not. It was all quite jolly. Did they send you up a decent dinner?”
“Yes, piping hot. I think you scared them, Pins. I feel so ashamed of having let you in for all this. I know how awful Cousin Sophia is and—oh, that woman and—and you’ll never guess how sweet Daddy really is.”
Felicity was making up the fire, drawing the curtains and moving the armchair to Priscilla’s bedside.
“Now let’s be comfy,” she said. Again confidence and youth and cheerfulness radiated from her, filling the room, putting to flight all the little demons that had been torturing Priscilla.
The next morning, at breakfast, Felicity gathered that, though the actual scene had not yet been chosen, the previous evening had not, from Mrs. Flower’s point of view, been wasted. Her elderly admirer was more enamoured than ever. He blushed purple at her frequent glances and followed her about with his eyes and sighed heavily to himself at intervals.
“Is everything as you like it?” he said affectionately, watching her consume large quantities of eggs and sausages and bacon.
“Lovely,” she said. She raised glowing eyes to his “How beautifully you look after one!” she said. “So—so comforting to one who’s knocked about the world as I have.”
There was a short silence.
“I know!” she said suddenly; “The Ghost Scene!”
“Eh?” said Mr. Bennet.
“The Ghost
Scene.”
“Who saw it?” said Mr. Bennet, mystified.
“Oh, you dear old stupid,” laughed Mrs. Flower with her girlish tinkle, “I mean, we’ll act the ghost scene from Macbeth. It’s the very scene. I’m magnificent in the Ghost Scene.” She pointed sternly at the coffee-pot. “‘Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once,’” she said in a sepulchral voice.
“Now don’t start getting all excited,” said Mr. Bennet soothingly, “you wear yourself out feeling things so.”
“Well, I can’t help my feeling nature,” sighed Mrs. Flower. “Anyway, that’s what we’ll do. You Macbeth and me Lady Macbeth. There are some other people, but you can easily get one or two people from the village for that. And the ghost doesn’t really matter, because he doesn’t speak. Just anyone will do for the ghost.”
She turned suddenly to Mr. Bennet and pointed a dramatic forefinger at him. “Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!” she spat out venomously.
“Come, come now,” said Mr. Bennet mildly, “that’s a bit thick, that is.”
“You say that to the ghost,” said Mrs. Flower.
“Oh, do I?” said Mr. Bennet, relieved. “Seems asking for trouble, though, don’t it? talking to ghosts in that tone of voice.”
“Oh, I’m going to enjoy myself,” said Mrs. Flower, “acting with a real actor at last.” Breakfast was over. She rose from her seat, slipped her arm through his. “Come now, Macbeth, we’re going to rehearse all morning.”
She led him, his great face beaming like a child’s with ecstatic pride and pleasure, into the library.
Cousin Sophia always spent the morning in bed resting and taking nourishment. The doctor came soon after breakfast and said that Priscilla might get up, but must spend the next few days in her room with her foot up.
“What’s Daddy doing this morning?” said Priscilla, who looked very fragile as she sat propped up by cushions in the easy chair. Felicity was sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug.
“He’s rehearsing Macbeth with Mrs. Flower,” she said cheerfully.
“I’ve felt as if ten thousand weights had been lifted from me since you came,” went on Priscilla, “but— you’re sure it’s going to be all right.”
“Sure,” said Felicity.
But she felt a good deal less sure than she pretended.
Preparations for the performance of Macbeth went on apace. Costumes were hired from London. Tickets were sold in the village. The Village Hall was engaged. The Vicar was asked to deliver an address on Shakespeare to introduce the scene. A few young men from the Young Men’s Club were reluctantly persuaded to act as lords and murderers, and every morning, every afternoon, every evening, Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Flower rehearsed alone together in the library. The Young Men were supposed to rehearse by themselves Mrs. Flower said that they would be less nervous.
Then, on the morning of the actual performance, the bomb fell.
The engagement between Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Flower was announced. It was announced the morning after the final rehearsal in the library.
Coy and blooming and blushing and possessive was Mrs. Flower that morning.
Glum and silent and shrinking and wretched-looking was Mr. Bennet. His debonair assurance and lover-like radiance of the last few days had suddenly departed. But this did not seem to disconcert the lady. She had quite evidently consolidated her position and trusted to Time and her charm to win over her reluctant lover.
Of course the news could not be kept from Priscilla. Her little face paled. Her eyes grew tragic.
“Oh, Felicity!” she said. “You said—–”
But Felicity’s confidence still upheld her.
“My dear,” she said with a look of deep wisdom upon her exquisite little face, “they’re not married yet. There’s many a slip, you know! You see, Priscilla, my idea is this. There’s always a minute when you can do something if you’re on the watch for it. It hasn’t come yet, but— I’m on the watch for it all the time.”
“What are they doing now?” said Priscilla.
“She’s gone up to town to get the make-up for to-night and—I think he’s in the library.”
“Tell him to come up to me, will you?”
“Yes,” said Felicity.
Mr. Bennet was in the library. He was sitting at his desk in an attitude of utter hopelessness with his bald head upon his large red hands.
“Priscilla wants you to go up to speak to her, please,” said Felicity from the doorway.
“Oh, I can’t,” moaned Mr. Bennet. “I can’t face the child after what I’ve done. Oh, why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t somebody stop me? Why didn’t anybody stop me? I never meant—I liked flirting with her and her making me think that I was—I was one of the lads and all that sort of thing . . . but I never meant— Look,” he took a miniature out of his pocket and handed it to Felicity. It was a pale, sweet, oval face—a face like Priscilla’s, with a frame of dark curly hair, “that’s my wife,” he groaned, “that’s Prissy’s mother. . . . I shan’t dare to meet her when—I tell you she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved. And Prissy . . .”
“But why did you?” said Felicity rather sternly; “nobody made you.”
“They did,” said Mr. Bennet with spirit. “She did with her Macbeths and ghosts and things. Rehearsing all day long and one thing and another. I tell you I didn’t know I’d done it till she told me I had, and she got a paper out for me to sign, and I signed it. Mind you, I was feeling fond of her at the time—last night that was— but when I woke up this morning I saw it all clear. I seemed to come to myself sudden-like. I’m what you’d call a downright common man myself, but my Helen was a lady and my Prissy’s a lady an’ she—she isn’t—and this mornin’ I saw it all clear. I’ve just let myself be flattered—you know, tryin’ to pretend I was young and—and flighty, when I know really that I’m just a common old man, and that’s how my Prissy likes me, and that’s how I’m really content to be—but it’s done now—it’s too late . . . I’ve woke up in my right senses too late.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Felicity.
No one could listen to the thrilling hope and encouragement of Felicity’s voice and not take heart. He looked at her just as Priscilla had looked up at her . . .
“W-what do you mean?” he said.
Felicity laid a cool, slim hand for a second upon his great red one.
“It’s going to be quite all right,” she said in the tone in which a mother might comfort an unhappy child.
And, despite himself, something of his burden seemed to fall from him.
But Felicity was worried. And when Felicity was worried she always went for a long walk. So she went for a long walk this morning.
It was as she was coming back that she saw Mrs. Flower in the lane that led from the station, talking to a man.
He was a rather ornate sort of man with curling black moustaches and flashing diamond tiepin and rings, but in spite of this he had a nice face. They seemed to be arguing, he urging and she scornfully rejecting. Then she turned from him abruptly and walked away. When Felicity reached the spot where they had been talking, the man stood alone leaning against a gate and staring morosely in front of him.
“Good morning,” said Felicity.
The man gave a start.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said gloomily.
“Was that Mrs. Flower?” said Felicity innocently.
“Yes, Miss,” said the man still more gloomily.
“I’m staying at Fairyng,” went on Felicity, “and she’d gone into town to get some make-up for the theatricals. Do you know if she got it all right?”
“You stayin’ at Fairyng?’’ said the man with sudden interest.
“Yes,” said Felicity.
Then gloom fell upon him once more.
“She’s going to marry ’im, isn’t she?’’ he said, cocking a thumb vaguely in the direction of Fairyng.
“Well, they’re engaged,” said Felicity. “Don’t you want
them to be?’’
“Me? Wants ’em to be?’’ said the man. He gave a short laugh. “That’s a good ’un, that is! Me want ’em to be!” Then an admiration that was almost reverence crept into his voice. “But, I say, she’s a beauty, ain’t she? An’ style. My word! . . . Now, wouldn’t you take ’er for a duchess any day? She can put it on an’ no mistake. Carry it orf with the Queen herself, she could.”
“Are you in love with her?’’ said Felicity simply.
“Love with ’er?’’ said the man with another short laugh. “That’s a good ’un, that is. Love with ’er? I’ve been in love with ’er hall me life. I used to go to ’er father’s fish an’ chip shop when I was a little nipper just for a sight of ’er. We went on the stage together, we did. Did turns together on the ’alls an’ she’d of married me all right if—–”
He paused.
“Yes?’’ said Felicity, “if—–?’’
“Hambition,” said the man morosely. “Hambition, that was it. She wanted to be a lady. Always pickin’ up little tricks, she was, till, has I said, you couldn’t tell her from a duchess. So she married that there Flower chap wot run a travellin’ Shakespeare show.”
“Oh, yes, she’s awfully fond of Shakespeare, isn’t she?” said Felicity.
“Not she,” said the man contemptuously, “got more sense, she ’as. Swank, that’s what it is. She’s one for the ’alls, she is. She an’ me together bring the ’ouse down. Why, ’er with ’er charm an ’er ’air an’ er eyes—she’s myde for the ’alls. Shakespeare! Bah!”
He spat the word out with withering contempt.
“Why did you come to see her to-day?” said Felicity, going daringly to the heart of the matter.
The ornate man did not resent her question.
“I’ve bin in’ America this year doin’ comic Music ’All turns an’ I comes back ’ere to find old Flower dead meantime. Tyke it from me, she wasn’t ’appy with ’im. She as good as told me so. ‘Well,’ I sez to myself, ‘she’ll ’ave learnt sense by this time, Hemerson Smith (Hemerson Smith’s me name), an’ you an she’ll find ’appiness together.’ So I tracks ’er down ’ere an’ what do I find? She’s got ’erself engaged to a pickled plutocrat wot keeps two cars and lives in one of the stately ’omes of England. Hambition, that’s it. It’ll be ’er downfall. She won’t be appy with ’im. I told ’er so straight. ‘Daisy,’ I said, ‘it’s me what you loves and what you’ve always loved’ (an she didn’t deny it) ‘an’ if you let Hambition part us asunder agyne syme as what you did before, you’ll regret to your dyin’ day. ‘For the last time,’ I sez, ‘will you marry me?’ ‘No,’ she sez, quite firm, ‘I’m doin’ a good deal better for myself than that, Hemerson Smith.’ ‘All right,’ I sez, ‘it’s the last time I asks you. I’m goin’ to shoot myself an my ghost’ll ’aunt you the rest of your life.’ An she laughs in my fyce an’ goes off,” he ended gloomy.
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