It was curious that during this dreadful week, when Hector’s sufferings were real and intense, he found time to regret that he had not had a more literary education. His passions were too big for his vocabulary, and he could not put all that he felt into words, even to himself. As for planning and common sense, he saw them for the extremely limited servants that they were, and the foundations of his whole scheme of life were shaken.
He knew that he was wretchedly insufficient in the part of Gonzalo. He accepted the rather mild rebuke which Valentine gave him without rancour, and almost without hearing it. He was numbed by his pain, and all that he could do was to stand as much out of sight as possible, and watch Griselda. The sight of her eased his heart. But when she went off to the lower lawn with Roger, he turned into the shrubbery like a sick animal, to be alone. The sight of Solly and Valentine was bitter to him, but only as a blow on the back hurts a man who has been stabbed to the heart. He thought of the chow mein, or a cup of coffee, but suddenly all food was repugnant to him. He found a bench hidden among the fragrantly flowering shrubs, and sat upon it. From the lawn came the song of the Cobbler family, light and free on the summer air:
He broke into a cold sweat and a horrible nausea seized him. Not far away was Griselda, and Roger with her. What were they doing? He clung to the back of the bench, his eyes shut, retching horribly.
Hector slept not at all that night. As a general thing, when that expression is used, people mean that they slept five hours instead of their accustomed eight. But Hector went to bed at one o’clock and lay awake until seven, when he rose and tried to rouse himself with a shower. The pelting of cold water on his weary flesh brought him some refreshment of body, but none of mind. In his room he tried to beguile the time with a batch of examination papers. Mechanically he spotted errors; mechanically he wrote TOSASM when that comment was justified, but he was like a man with a mortal sickness, and no temporary distraction could make him forget Griselda. At last he rose and went to the Snak Shak, where he could take nothing but a glass of orange juice—a small glass, not the Mammoth Jumbo Special.
He had no school work that morning, for examinations were nearly over, and he intended to correct papers in the Men Teachers’ Room for the greater part of the day. He was free, therefore, to go to a florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of flowers.
“To whom shall we send it?” asked the clerk.
He could not speak her name. A flush spread over his face and his head ached.
“I’ll write the address for you,” said he.
“You’ll find a nice selection of cards on the desk.”
A nice selection of cards. The first one he saw said “In deepest Sympathy”; the next, “For a Joyous Occasion”; a third, bearing the picture of what might have been a baboon, but was perhaps intended for an Irishman, said “May good luck go wid ye. And throuble forgit ye”. He chose a plain white card, and pondered long over his message. Dared he make a declaration of love in this way? No, no; the florist’s men might read it, and know what was for her eye alone. But could he not say something which would mean nothing to the idly curious, but which would carry his meaning to her? He wrote:
Whatever you may have been, you can count on me for anything, even Death itself.
He read it several times. He could not put his finger on what was wrong with it, but somehow it would not do. When he tried to crush the immensities of his emotions into words, he could not get his meaning clear. At last he wrote:
You can count on me for anything.
He addressed the envelope and hurried out of the shop before the florist should learn his secret.
“Half an hour. This is your half hour call. You will receive a call at the quarter hour, and another at five minutes before curtain time. The beginners will then assemble backstage.” Larry Pye’s voice, vastly amplified, rang through The Shed. He spoke solemnly, as befitted a man using a public address system of his own devising, and his enunciation was pedantically clear.
Roger Tasset leapt from the chair in which he was being made up, and seized a small microphone which hung near the loud-speaker.
“Stage Management? Stage Management? Message received. Wilco.”
Larry’s voice was heard again, excited and quite normal in tone.
“How’s it coming in, Rodge?”
“Fine, Larry; couldn’t be better.”
Delighted, Roger submitted himself again to the hands of the makeup artist.
What babies men are, thought Valentine. All this fuss about messages that could be much better done by a call-girl.
The Shed was filled with people. Tom had cleared it for the use of the Little Theatre, and tables and chairs for makeup had been brought in. Several experienced hands were at work on the faces of the actors, under Valentine’s watchful eye, and in a corner Auntie Puss laboured over Hector Mackilwraith. She treated his face as though it were a blackboard; if an effect did not please her, she roughly scrubbed it off with a towel and tried another. She would examine him intently through her magnifying glass, and then go to work without its aid.
“A little white at the temples, I think,” said she. “What we call a Distinguished Grey. Very becoming.”
“Miss Pottinger, why are you putting yellow in Mr Mackilwraith’s hair?” said Valentine.
“Dear dear; I must have picked up the wrong stick in error. Ah, well; a little powder will mend that; it’s a very neutral sort of yellow.”
“Perhaps one of the others will put on Mr Mackilwraith’s beard, Miss Pottinger. You must not tire yourself.”
“Please do not worry about me, Miss Rich. I understand all about beards.”
“I am sure you do. But I do not want to impose on your good nature.”
“Miss Rich, the Earl of Minto once told me that he considered me to be a real artist at this work. And as you know, he painted china beautifully. Give me time, and I shall finish Mr Mackilwraith and put touches on all the others.”
Not if I know it, thought Valentine. She had contrived to have all the girls made up elsewhere, in a room which Griselda had offered inside the house, and she felt that she could protect the men against Auntie Puss. Great God! Look at her! With a black lining-stick she was drawing what appeared to be comic spectacles around Mackilwraith’s eyes. Oh well, he’s so bad anyway that it doesn’t matter too much what he looks like. We’ll just have to write him off as a total loss; every amateur show has at least one.
The door opened and Freddy bounced in, dressed as the goddess Ceres.
“Miss Rich,” said she, “Mr Cobbler wants to know whether you want God Save the King played at the beginning or end of the performance.”
“At the beginning,” said Valentine; “we decided that days ago.”
“He said you had, but Mrs Forrester told him to play it at the end.”
“I’ll talk to them about it,” said Valentine, and hurried out.
“You’re quite a cute kid, painted up like that,” said Roger to Freddy.
“I object very much to being called a cute kid,” she replied. “If it is God’s will that I should be pretty, I’ll be pretty; if I am to be plain, I shall be plain without complaint. But come what will, I shall never be vulgar. Only vulgar people are cute kids.”
“You’re going to be pretty, like your sister,” said Geordie Shortreed, hideously made up as Caliban.
“Griselda is very pretty,” said Freddy. “It’s a shame she has no brains. If brains ever came back into fashion for girls, it would be a bad day for her. The Torso’s a bit squiffed. I can’t stand people who don’t know how to hold their drink.”