by A. J. Cronin
Down in her secret heart Nancy was mad about the theatre. Not the ordinary stage-struck madness, but a deep and burning adour to express herself through the vivid, pulsing art of mime. Whence it came Nancy could not guess, unless some ancestor of her happy-go-lucky father had passed this eager heritage to her blood. But there it was, dating back even to her earliest days.
Unhappily for Nancy and this fervour which possessed her, she could not imprint it with a due solemnity. A few of her intimate friends truly recognized her ambition and the intensity of her application to her dramatic studies, though whether they believed she would ultimately succeed was quite a different matter. But the important people, Katharine, for instance, and now Madden, were merely inclined to smile at Nancy’s soul-disturbing aspirations. They could not, or would not, take her seriously.
For this, in a sense, Nancy had herself to blame. She was extremely young, with all the uncertainties and mannerisms of adolescence. Her moods, in which she could manifest both pique and caprice, did not predispose one towards belief in the constancy of her ideals. She had, too, a habit of flippancy, and in conversation used the current coin, which was often cheap, of the modern smart set. She was, in a word, a complex little person, like a seesaw, now up, now down, and it was difficult to determine in which of these positions she would ultimately finish.
Such an analysis of Nancy’s character, had it been presented to her, would have disturbed her profoundly, for she was at heart both sensitive and sincere. However, no one had done this for her up to date. Nor was she likely at this moment to pursue the examination for herself. She was too busy with her Shakespeare, immersed, for all her throbbing temples, in the study of King Lear. She saw herself as Goneril first, then Regan, and finally the slim Cordelia.
Finished at last, Nancy laid down the book. She felt tired. Time passed. The afternoon merged into evening. Her daily woman took her departure, promising to look in again at nine that night to see that she was comfortable. Nancy dozed a little, her reverie again of Madden, off-setting her present malaise by the happy prospects of the future. And then, cutting across the web of her abstraction, came the ringing of the telephone.
Nancy picked up the receiver and recognized the voice as John Herries’before he had time to announce himself. She had a particular aptitude for voices. And Herries, from his tone, was plainly relieved to have made contact with her.
“Look, Nancy,” he declared somewhat urgently, “I’m frightfully glad I’ve got hold of you. Yes, I am at the B.B.C. And I’m in the most awful fix. You know we’re on the air to-night with The Black Pearl. It’s a definitely important show, eight o’clock, peak hour, and all that. Well, listen, Nancy! Sylvia Burke has gone back on me. She’s sick. Think of it. My lead goes down at four hours’ notice. That’s why I want you, Nancy. I want you to pick up the part. Now hurry over, there’s a good girl. And we’ll run through the script together.”
“But, John,” protested Nancy, “ I—I don’t know that I can come!”
“What! Are you out of your senses! Don’t you realize this is jam for you? Deputizing for Sylvia Burke. And a couple of million listening in.”
Nancy pressed her hand rather dizzily against her hot head. What Herries said was absolutely true. Sylvia Burke was perhaps the most important comedy actress of the day. It was a miraculous chance to advance her own reputation, to exhibit her name before that enormous public who would be tuning in to hear the star.
“What’s wrong with Sylvia?” she temporized feebly.
“Influenzal cold,” snapped Herries. “ Temperature a hundred degrees. They absolutely won’t let her move.”
At any other moment Nancy would have laughed.
“You’re not worried about the script?” persisted Herries. “Just a matter of reading it through.”
“No, no, I’m not worried about that,” answered Nancy, reaching for the clinical thermometer beside her bed. “ Just hang on a minute, please.”
She slipped the thermometer under her tongue and left it there for sixty agonizing seconds. Then she looked. The reading was a hundred and one degrees. Her heart sank dully. She couldn’t go. It was impossible. She must not take such a risk. The thing was sheer insanity.
“Well?” broke in Herries almost with exasperation. “Have I got to stay here all night? What’s wrong with you, Nancy? I thought you had your head screwed on the right way. Are you coming or are you not?’
Nancy’s lips opened to say: “ No,” when all at once her eye lit on her portrait of Duse that hung, like an inspiration, on the wall in front of her. Duse, her ideal, the great Duse, who had once played half-crazy with tic douloureux rather than disappoint her public. Something leaped in Nancy’s throat; an inspiration, a quick surge of courage.
“Of course I’m coming, John,” she found herself saying. “I don’t feel so good as I might. But I’ll be with you in half an hour.”
She clicked the receiver down on his burst of gratitude. She was quite out of her mind. She would get frightfully ill, catch some dreadful complication if she went to-night. Katharine would be terribly upset with her, and Chris—well, hadn’t she said she was too ill to go with him to Wimbledon? A pang shot through her, but passed as quickly. Chris loved her. He would not be cross with her. He would understand.
Summoning all her resolution, Nancy got up. She felt extremely shaky, but with an effort she managed to dress. She put on her heaviest clothes, her fur coat, and as an after-thought wrapped a thick scarf round her neck. She took a big dose of her medicine and rang for a taxi. Then, staring at herself in the glass, she shook her head slowly, made a melodramatic little gesture, and switched out the light.
Chapter Four
There ought, of course, to have been a sensation, a real, authentic frisson. Nancy should have fainted at the microphone to the consternation of the million fans or else, returning from the studio in a snowstorm, have contracted double pneumonia and passed away to the wailing of violins some twenty-four hours later.
As it was, she gave a competent performance—considering the shortness of the notice and the muddled condition of her head—and came back to the flat to a barrage of reproaches from Beechwood. Madden was already in the car on his way to her.
Next morning there were no headlines. Against the accepted formula for tragedy, Nancy was better, much better. Her temperature actually was normal, and on Monday she was fit to return, with just one sheepish glance at the picture of Duse, to the rehearsals of Moonlight in Arcady.
Meanwhile Katharine also was back at work. She sat in her office with her chin propped reflectively on her palms, while before her, on the desk, in its case of dark green velvet, lay the Holbein miniature which Mr Sugden, one of the partners in Vernon’s, had delivered to her in person that morning. Katharine’s eyes dwelt on the miniature with a dark, intensive scrutiny.
It was a lovely thing, rich with a delicate and sombre art. The woman, Lucie de Quercy, stood at a double-tiered table which carried, above, a strip of red brocade and, below, a mandolin and some open books. Her dress was of dark maroon trimmed with ermine, and in her hand, resting lightly on the brocade, she carried a spray of white carnations. She was beautiful, with a secret, an almost enigmatic, beauty—pale, slender, wise. Her eyes especially, of a deep and luminous brown, seemed to hold an infinite understanding, and to gaze up into Katharine’s as if they were alive. So intimate, so confiding, were those eyes that they became fraught with meaning, bearing a message for Katharine, drawing her gently backward through the dim arches of the years into the far, incalculable past. Fascinated, Katharine found herself returning the gaze of Lucie de Quercy, yielding to the influence of that sweet yet pensive personality.
The story of Lucie, inseparable from the miniature and a matter of open history, was well known to Katharine. The young Frenchwoman had come from Paris with her father, Comte de Quercy, to the court of Henry VIII, partly to attend the court but mainly to sit for her portrait to Holbein, who had then returned from Switzerland afte
r severe financial reverses, and settled in London. Behind her Lucie left her betrothed, Pierre de Noailles. Theirs was no formal affection but the flowering of a rare love. The portrait was painted—the same that now hangs in the royal picture gallery at The Hague.
And then, as an afterthought, Lucie begged Holbein for the miniature, intending it as a gift for de Noailles. It was done, more exquisite even than the major work, and in the spring of that year Lucie returned with the Comte to Paris.
They were met in France by the news of the death of de Noailles, killed in a duel two days before. Lucie’s miniature became no more than a tragic memento of her loss. She never married. Broken-hearted, she accepted her destiny. Devoting her life to good works, she died at the age of thirty-seven in a convent.
A knock on the door recalled Katharine abruptly to the present. She sat for a moment without moving, then with a little shiver called: “ Come in!”
Mr Walters, her head man, entered. He stood by the desk, a long brown package in his hands, gazing over her shoulder at the miniature. “Very nice, Miss Lorimer,” he said at length in his subdued, respectful tone. “Very nice indeed.”
Mr Walters was always respectful and always dignified. A fatherly gentleman of sixty, refined and neat in his attire, with a high, stiff collar and near-clerical suit, he looked like a churchwarden of a High Episcopal church. Even his walk was reverent, each step a gentle pressure on the carpet. He had been with Katharine now for many years, and she knew by heart his foibles and weaknesses, which included an insatiable predilection for strong tea and the Gothic Period. He was so sound and stable he seemed an institution in himself, and his devotion to the antique profession, as opposed to the horrid brutality of trade, was most impressive. It amused Katharine occasionally to shock him by shouting for him from the head of the staircase: “Forward, Mr Walters, please!” But in the main she duly treasured him.
“A little masterpiece,” went on Mr Walters admiringly. “ It’s remarkable, isn’t it, how the detail does not impair the decorative effect.”
“Very remarkable,” said Katharine dryly.
“And so typical of Holbein, poor man. Hmm! Strange I should say ‘ poor man’. I always think of him with sympathy, though, dying of the plague the way he did. Fifteen forty-three, wasn’t it? Mm, yes. He was only forty-six. He had such a shocking time in Basel, too, before that, losing all his money. Still, he must have enjoyed painting this. She’s a lovely woman. Do you know, Miss Lorimer, forgive me for passing the remark, but she’s a little like you!”
“Nonsense!”
“Oh, but yes, Miss Lorimer, if I might venture to contradict. I see a distinct resemblance. The eyes there, exactly like yours.” He paused. “ I presume you know her history.”
“Yes, yes,” Katharine said brusquely. “ Every collector knows it. Don’t let’s rake it up again. Poor thing!”
Her tone took him rather by surprise.
“Of course not, Miss Lorimer. I merely thought it might be interesting.…”
Katharine turned with a forced smile. “It’ll be a lot more interesting when we sell the miniature. We need the money, Walters. And you know it. Tell me, has anything come in about that Ansen commission?”
“Yes, Miss Lorimer.” Walters hesitated. “Lady Ansen rang up this morning.” His voice expressed a pained concern. “She’s decided to leave over the renovations.”
“What!” Katharine’s eyes sparkled with sudden anger. “But she told us on Friday we could go ahead.”
“I know, Miss Lorimer.” Walters’ head drooped. “ She’s gone back on that. She—she said things were rather difficult at present.”
“Difficult!” Katharine echoed the word mirthlessly. With a great effort she conquered her indignation. She had a pretty temper on occasion, but there was little point in venting it now.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lorimer,” Walters was saying. “I did my best to persuade her.”
“I know, I know. And of course it isn’t your fault, Walters. I’m not blaming you. Lady Ansen was right. Things are difficult. Difficult for everybody. Difficult for us!” Katharine sighed, and her eyes reverted to the miniature. “ We’ve got to put this Holbein over pretty successfully, and pretty soon.”
“You mean Mr Brandt, Miss Lorimer?”
“Yes, Brandt. He’ll want it for his collection. I know he will. If he hadn’t been down in Argentina, he’d never have missed it at the sale. He’d have bid up to twenty thousand for this, Walters. And that’s the price I’m going to ask him now.”
“Yes, Miss Lorimer.” Walters’ voice was hushed. “You did well with Mr Brandt over those porcelains. A nice gentleman. Excellent taste. And so wealthy.”
“Yes! He’s wealthy!” Katharine answered grimly.
“You’ll go over yourself, Miss Lorimer?”
“Yes, I’ll go over. Look up the sailings for the beginning of next month. I think the Pindaric goes about the seventh. She’s a good ship. And what’s more important, Walters, they’ll give me a nice cabin at the minimum rates.”
Walters’ eyes sought the floor again. “ Is it as bad as that, Miss Lorimer? I thought—why, of course I knew—but I didn’t quite realize.…” He paused, then with embarrassing dramatic effect drew himself up. “If there’s anything I can do, Miss Lorimer—in the way of a cut, perhaps—or anything to help you…”
Katharine’s expression lightened. She smiled—genuinely, affectionately. “It only wanted that, Walters! White-haired retainer offers life savings to prevent foreclosure of the mortgage. No, no, it’s not so bad as that! We’ve been up against it before. We’ll pull through this time again. Now don’t stand there gaping as if the bailiffs were downstairs. Off you go and get some work done.”
“Yes, Miss Lorimer,” stammered Walters, retreating. He was almost gone when he remembered the package in his hand. “Oh, I forgot, Miss Lorimer. This came for you.”
He came back, placed it upon the desk, turned, and tiptoed reverently away. The door closed behind him without a sound.
Free of the necessity of pretence—she could never have met Walters with the full gravity of her position—Katharine allowed her expression to lapse into sadness again. Almost with apathy she approached the package. She was some time occupied with the knots, since she could never bear ruthlessly to cut string, especially such handsome tricolour twine as this; but at last it was untied and the lid removed. Then her eyes widened, and a real delight rushed into them. The box was full of lovely double carnations. Almost before she saw the card she knew that they were from Madden, for she remembered having mentioned on their drive to Beechwood, commenting on a garden they had passed, that these were her favourite flowers. She picked up his card—a plain one, she noted—her eyes dwelling upon the neat lettering,
Chris Madden
Cleveland Ohio
before passing to the message below.
“In gratitude for an interrupted week-end—and Nancy,” he had written.
She could not repress a throb of amusement at his cool assumption of proprietary rights over her niece. Yet it was pleasant to have these lovely blooms; no one had sent her flowers for ages, and that they should be her favourites—it was clever of him to have remembered her stray remark. As she placed them in an old Worcester bowl whose dull gold and brown offset their lovely texture, she thought with an inward smile, “I mustn’t let him get round me this way.”
A rich fragrance filled her room when she had placed the bowl to her liking on the desk. Gratified, she took the miniature and locked it in her safe. Then she turned and, her features altering, addressed herself to the painful matter of business. She took a pencil and began to figure out her liabilities on a pad.
It was true that she had paid ten thousand for the miniature, yet she had done this almost entirely with borrowed money; her cash in hand had been no more than four thousand, but she had long been known to the City and Southern Counties Bank; and Mr Farrar, of the St James’s Branch, straining friendship and credit to the limit, h
ad loaned her the additional six thousand pounds on the stock and good will of her business. Actually the loan had been issued on her record of integrity rather than on her assets.
So far she stood exactly clear, but the demands falling on her at the beginning of the year were too formidable to to contemplate. Rent and rates; tax and super-tax, bitter reminder of her good years to the tune of two thousand pounds; bills due for fabrics, materials, and other goods added another eight hundred to the score. But there was no need of further detail; already the figure was known to her. The liabilities she must meet in January totalled approximately five thousand pounds. It was this ominous and unalterable fact which had forced her into the desperate adventure of the miniature. And now, with a sudden quickening of her intention, she saw the vital necessity of carrying it to a successful conclusion. Then everything would be well. She could meet her obligations, pay off the bank overdraft, start again with a comfortable balance and the prospect of better times to come. She must sell the miniature, she must, she must!
This conclusion reached, she gazed at her figures with a certain fixity, then, squaring her elbows, she set to work on a letter to Breuget, her manager in New York, telling him when to expect her and how to establish preliminary contact with Brandt. It was an important letter, and though the tapping of Miss Mills’s typewriter was now significantly silent, Katharine wrote it herself in the thin, clear hand which somehow characterized her.
She had just finished when a knock came on the door and Miss Mills appeared in person. On her prim bespectacled face she wore, despite her efforts to subdue it, an arch, incongruous smile which immediately advised Katharine of its cause.
“It’s Mr Upton,” murmured Miss Mills. “He says he has an appointment with you, Miss Lorimer.”
“For lunch, I suppose?”
