Fortunately for Marianne, darkness was well advanced when the North Britain express pulled into King's Cross Station and she got her first look at the city she had dreamed of with such romantic hopes – fortunately, because night hid the soot and dirt and concealed the most wretched victims of a great nation's indifference.
She had resigned herself to being accompanied, knowing full well that Mrs. Jay would never allow her to make such a long journey unchaperoned. It had not been an easy task to find a traveling companion, for the residents of Wulfingham seldom had occasion to visit London. Mrs. Jay had finally been forced to extend her inquiries as far as York. Here she had found success, in the form of Mrs. Wackford, the wife of a schoolmaster. The school was known for its strictness, even in an age when education was not supposed to be fun. It had an excellent reputation among parents who were not at all amused by Mr. Dickens' savage satires on Yorkshire schools, being particularly popular with those who served the Queen in the jungles of the East. Mrs. Wackford was journeying to London to meet two such unfortunates, sent from India by their widowed papa; and as soon as Marianne set eyes on the lady she pitied the unknown children with all her heart. The schoolmaster's wife looked like a tall thin knobby iron column. Rusty ringlets, as rigid as sculptured bronze, lined the rim of her black bonnet. The only muscles on her face that moved were the ones necessary to open her mouth the barest slit when she was obliged to speak.
Marianne never knew whether Mrs. Wackford took an instant dislike to her personally, or whether she simply disliked everyone on principle. Certainly she displayed no warmth toward anyone they encountered, not even toward Mrs. Jay. That good lady had arisen at two A.M. and had endured the uncomfortable ride into York with her goddaughter; but not even the laudanum, which she had been taking regularly, could make this final parting endurable. After a quick, desperate embrace she fled, knowing she would betray herself if she stayed. Billy, who had driven the hired carriage from Wulfingham and carried Marianne's modest luggage into the station, lingered just long enough to give Marianne a most improper wink and press a small packet into her hand.
Marianne bit her lip hard and managed not to cry. Excitement had prevented her from sleeping the previous night, and she was bewildered by the new sights around her. She had never traveled by train before; the echoing station with its noisy crowds and snorting steel monsters was terrifying. She was not given time to indulge in tears. With a sniff and a jerk of her head, Mrs. Wackford indicated a nearby carriage.
The novelty soon wore off and was succeeded by tedium. Mrs. Wackford had a "Ladies Only" sign tacked on their compartment, so there were no other travelers to entertain them; for all the other ladies seemed to be accompanied by gentlemen. The only thing that cheered Marianne was Billy's gift – a twopenny's worth of bulls' eyes, rather squashed and dusty-looking, but recalling the sweets they had so often shared. She might have wept then, but seeing Mrs. Wackford's outraged glance at the grubby little offering, she was moved to mischief instead. Leaning forward, she proffered the sticky sweet and said demurely, "Do have one, ma'am."
This gesture effectively ended any possible communication between the two. Marianne dozed and woke and looked out the window and dozed again. The sky was cloudy, and it soon began to rain. Even her fertile imagination was daunted by the dreariness inside and out, and for the first time she began to entertain doubts of the future.
If the station at York had awed her, the magnificence of King's Cross made her wish she were back in Mrs. Jay's cozy parlor. The noise, amplified a thousandfold by the lofty ceiling, made her head ache. Everyone in London seemed to shout, and everyone except Marianne herself seemed to know where he was going and was in a great hurry to get there.
In an alarming foghorn bellow Mrs. Wackford summoned a porter and started out along the platform, shoving and pushing with as much abandon as the others. Marianne followed. She was glad to collapse into the cab, although it smelled like musty straw inside. Followed by the heated comments of the porter, who clearly felt that he had been inadequately compensated for his efforts, the cab creaked out of the station and onto the city streets.
Tired as she was, Marianne could not resist peeking out the window. Accustomed to the darkness of country lanes, she was dazzled by the gas lamps that illumined the main thoroughfares, and was amazed to note that though the hour was late the streets were crowded with people.
"How elegantly ladies dress here," she exclaimed.
Mrs. Wackford leaned forward to look. It was not difficult for her to pick out the particular "lady" who had roused Marianne's interest; her gaudy red satin skirts gleamed like stained glass in the lamplight, and her pelisse was thrown back from her shoulders, displaying a broad white bosom and the flash of what Marianne had naively believed to be diamonds. As Mrs. Wackford stared, a man in evening dress strolled up to the red-satin lady, doffed his top hat with a flourish, and offered her his arm.
Marianne felt herself pulled away from the window and shoved back into her corner.
"That," said Mrs. Wackford, "is no lady. I am responsible for you, miss, until we reach your boarding house, so I must insist that you pay no attention to such – er – persons."
"Is it a fallen woman?" Marianne asked, breathless with excitement.
Her companion gasped. "What is the world coming to? A modest young woman of my time would never have asked such a question!"
Marianne subsided. She did not dare move out of her corner, but by craning her neck she caught occasional glimpses of shop windows displaying a luxurious assortment of goods, walls placarded with garish signs advertising pills and potions, corsets and coal scuttles, and more people than she had ever seen gathered together in one place. She did not see the beggars and the pickpockets, and she failed to recognize the harlots.
Eventually the cab turned off the brightly lighted street and passed into a quiet area of small houses.
"At last," said Mrs. Wackford, as the cab came to a stop. "Make haste, Miss Ransom, if you please; I have still some distance to travel and the hour is late."
Marianne was glad to oblige. Much as she dreaded the strange faces and places awaiting her, nothing could be more unpleasant than the company of Mrs. Wackford.
The house before which they had stopped was one of a row of similar structures, tall and narrow, each separated from its neighbors by a slitlike passageway. A flight of steps led up to the front door. The door opened; a form was seen silhouetted against the glow of lamplight within.
"Is it Miss Ransom?" a voice inquired.
Marianne could see nothing of the speaker except her outline – that of a stout, short lady wearing a frilled cap of such extravagant proportions that her head resembled a cabbage – but she liked the sound of the low, pleasant voice. She started to reply, but was forestalled by Mrs. Wackford, still in the carriage.
"It is. You, madam, are Mrs. Shortbody? Then, madam, I have fulfilled my responsibilities and I bid you good night. Driver, we will proceed immediately to the Tavistock Hotel."
" 'old your 'orses," the driver replied. "I'll just 'elp the young lady wif her boxes."
"Thank you," Marianne said.
The driver grinned broadly at her, displaying brown, rotting teeth.
"There won't be no change out o' 'er," he said cryptically. "You go on, miss; I'll just take me time 'ere."
Marianne started up the stairs. Mrs. Wackford's furious criticisms of the driver formed a loud background accompaniment, though it had no perceptible effect on its object.
Mrs. Shortbody stepped forward as Marianne reached the top of the steps and held out both hands. Her grasp was warm, and her face, framed by the frills of her cap, was as smiling and pleasant as her voice.
"Welcome to London, my dear." Marianne burst into tears.
As was to be expected, the seats inside the omnibus were all taken. There was room on top; but no lady ever attempted to mount the perpendicular iron ladder to that lofty region. If her long skirts had not prevented such an exercise, the possibility of exposing petticoats and pantalettes to the bold gazes of men below would have been unthinkable.
If it had been raining, even chivalry might not have prompted any of the men to exchange their inside seats for a place on the unroofed top of the bus. Fortunately for Marianne the day was fair, and one young man – a clerk on an errand, to judge by his neat but shabby attire and the large parcel he carried – was susceptible to melting turquoise-blue eyes. Marianne was not unaware of the charming picture she presented, slim and pathetic in her black gown, a few tendrils of sunny hair escaping the confines of her black bonnet; and it is to be feared that she allowed her eyes to linger on the young man's face for an instant before lowering them in modest confusion. An instant was all that was required. The young clerk leaped to his feet and bowed Marianne into his vacated seat.
Marianne relaxed as much as the hard wooden bench would allow and pushed her curls back into place with her gloved hand. It would be at least half an hour before she reached her destination; time to collect her thoughts and complete her plans.
She could hardly believe she had been in London only two days. The quiet country village from which she had come seemed like another world, and she felt herself quite a different person from the simple girl who had wept with weariness and nerves at the first kind word.
The omnibus made slow progress. Traffic was heavy, and if there were rules of the road, no one paid the slightest attention to them. Heavy drays, pushcarts and wagons, hansom cabs and carriages contended with pedestrians for the right-of-way.
A young man tossed a handful of bright-purple papers in through the window. Most of the passengers ignored them or brushed them irritably aside; but Marianne picked one up. She was intrigued by this form of advertising, quite unknown and indeed unnecessary in Wulfingham. This handbill told the pathetic yet encouraging story of a young man of Exeter who had been "effectively cured in a single night of insanity by swallowing the whole contents of a thirteen-penny-half-penny box of Number Two Pills."
Marianne of course believed every word of this. She marveled at the wonders of modern medicine and decided that perhaps the Number Two Pills might help Lady Verill. Next time she wrote Mrs. Jay she would mention them.
Yes, London was certainly a marvelous place! The city still frightened her a little; it was so very large and so exceedingly dirty. Dust and mud she was accustomed to, but the sticky soot that clung like oil to her clothing and skin disgusted her. However, the people were very kind, quite unlike the picture she had formed from the warnings of her friends back home. She had gotten the impression that Londoners were too busy to be civil or helpful to a stranger. She had certainly not found it so. Everyone had been most pleasant, especially the gentlemen.
Of course, she reminded herself, she had as yet seen only a minute fraction of the population. She had spent the preceding two days settling in, getting acquainted with her landlady and the other young ladies, and – somewhat surreptitiously – collecting as much information as she could about the city. Her complacent smile faded as she remembered some of the things she had said and done. Yes, she had changed – and not for the better. She had not told any out-and-out lies… But that was equivocating, and Marianne knew it. Her silence had been a form of lying, her efforts to discover what she needed to know had been sly and lacking in candor.
Yet what else could she have done? If she had told Mrs. Shortbody what she intended, her landlady would have forbidden it in no uncertain terms. Mrs. Shortbody's genial face and round, comfortable figure had led Marianne to hope that her views would be more liberal than those of her old friend, but to her disappointment Mrs. Shortbody was just as narrow-minded and old-fashioned as Mrs. Jay, especially in her opinions about the theater. After all, the Queen had attended innumerable theatrical performances before her husband's death sent her into the voluntary retirement from which she had not emerged for years. She and Prince Albert had even acted themselves, in the privacy of the royal parlor. Mrs. Shortbody had admitted, in response to Marianne's adroit questioning, that she enjoyed a good performance of Shakespeare as much as anyone. However, she had added, most actors and actresses were people of immoral habits – not the sort one would ever invite into one's home.
Marianne did not remain gloomy for long. She assured herself that she would tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth as soon as she had secured a position as a singer; and surely, when the good lady saw how thoroughly respectable the situation was, she would accept it. ("My dear Miss Ransom, if I had but known… You were right, and I was quite wrong.")
Such pleasant visions, including the now classic daydream of the Prince of Wales bowing with tears in his eyes, occupied Marianne quite happily until she reached her destination. She would have missed the stop if the driver had not descended from his high seat to throw open the door and announce, "The Strand," as he nodded benignly at her. Unaware of how remarkable this behavior was, Marianne thanked him prettily and accepted his hand as she descended.
Though the theater she had selected was not far away, it took her some time to find it. Finally she stopped a constable and asked directions.
The facade of the Imperial Theater was all she had ever imagined. It had been recently remodeled in the latest classical mode, and the soot of London had as yet made comparatively small impression upon the Corinthian columns and the modestly draped caryatids. The lobby, with its massive bronze chandeliers and thick plum-colored carpeting, was as imposing as the exterior. Seeing no one about, Marianne pushed through the doors leading to the auditorium.
Later she would realize what a fortuitous chain of circumstances had conspired to lead her, unquestioned and unhindered, to the stage of that most prestigious of theaters. A rehearsal had been called for that morning, and she happened to arrive just after the doors were opened and just before the cast had assembled. The humbler employees were occupied with various errands, so the vast auditorium was unoccupied. The stage was alight and waiting.
As if mesmerized Marianne moved slowly down the aisle. It took her only a moment to find the steps that led to the stage. She moved out into the center and turned to face the rows of empty seats.
She did not see the two men who had entered while she was making her way to the stage. In their dark suits they were scarcely visible to eyes dazzled by the footlights, and Marianne's imagination was in full flower, supplying an orchestra in the pit and a glittering group of royalty in the nearest stage box. It is doubtful that she would have behaved differently if she had seen the small audience of two, for this was precisely the situation she had dreamed of – the young, unknown singer, the skeptical manager… She clasped her hands, lifted her eyes to what she (mistakenly) believed to be the Royal Box, and began to sing.
"I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls, With vassals and serfs at my side…"
The two men listened in silence. The taller and stouter of them had been in a bad mood to begin with; the frown that darkened his normally affable face deepened when he saw the interloper, and Marianne's song did not lessen its severity.
The other man's slight, foppishly dressed figure made him seem, at first glance, considerably younger than his companion. Coal-black hair and luxuriant whiskers framed a face of luminous pallor – the face of a man who seldom goes abroad under the sun. It was a singularly expressionless countenance, and it remained so; but the narrow dark eyes, so black that they appeared pupilless, narrowed still more as they examined the dainty little figure on the stage.
"Your new nightingale, Nubbles?" he asked softly.
"Never saw the gel in my life. Some stage-struck chit from the country, no doubt. Well, Wilson, there is nothing more to be said. I believe our business is concluded."
The slighter dark man looked amused.
"It never actually began, Nubbles. You gave me no opportunity to enlarge upon my proposal."
"No need," Nubbles said gruffly. "Must I be blunt? You and I are not interested in the same aspects of the theatrical profession."
"Perhaps not. Very well. If you should change your mind…"
"Not likely."
"Good day to you, then."
With a mocking inclination of his head Wilson started toward the door. Nubbles, his eyes fixed on the stage where Marianne, carried away by her own performance, postured and swayed as she sang, did not observe that Wilson paused briefly to inspect the girl once again before he went through the door.
Despite his scowl, Mr. Nubbles was not immune to the charm of the young performer. Once the other man had left, his scowl relaxed into a faint smile, though he shook his head and sighed as he listened. He let Marianne finish her song before he started down the aisle.
"Now then," he shouted, brandishing his walking stick like a club. "That will be enough of that, young lady. Come down from there, if you please."
Marianne had been so deep in her dreamworld that the gruff voice struck like a blow. She jumped.
"Oh, dear," she gasped.
"Oh, dear, indeed," said Mr. Nubbles, advancing. "Come here, miss."
Marianne tried to obey, but in her confusion she lost all sense of direction, and Mr. Nubbles had to indicate where she was to go. When they finally met in the central aisle, Mr. Nubbles was no longer smiling. His heavy eyebrows and bulky form were so forbidding that the speech Marianne had prepared in hopes of some such encounter went completely out of her head. She could only stare speechlessly up into his grim face.
Had she but known it, poor Mr. Nubbles was as uncomfortable as she. His suburban home in Islington sheltered three little daughters who adored their papa and knew him for what he was: the most sentimental and softhearted of men. In order to survive in his profession Mr. Nubbles had learned to suppress or at least conceal these attributes, for theatrical management is not an occupation for the tender-hearted. Over the years he had become more or less hardened to the necessity of discouraging eager young aspirants to the stage; at first he was at a loss to understand why this girl should affect him so strongly.
To be sure, she was uncommonly pretty. Her big, melting eyes were an unusual shade of sea-blue, and her hair had reflected the footlights like silver ribbons. Her figure, too… Yes, she was beautiful, but it was more than that. That was something about her that made him feel paternal, protective, reluctant to hurt her. A quality of innocence.
Because he had to struggle so hard to overcome his weakness, his voice was even gruffer than usual.
"Well, young lady? What is the reason for this intrusion?"
Marianne's thick honey-gold lashes veiled her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Mr. Nubbles resisted the impulse to fling himself at her feet and beg her to be his. (He had been a widower for five years.) But he was not moved to beg her to accept a leading role in his next production. Sentiment and business were two different things. He did not even ask her to sit down. That would only have prolonged a painful interview.
"You came here intending to perform, if you could," he said, seeing the roll of music that peeped out of her bag. "I suppose someone told you that you sing very nicely?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do. Very nicely. But a professional singer, my dear, must have more than a nice voice."
"Oh!" Marianne gasped as if she had been doused in cold water. Mr. Nubbles hurried on with his speech. If she started to cry he didn't know what he might do.
"My dear young lady, do you have any idea how many girls aspire to a career on the stage? Do you know how few succeed? You haven't even come to the right theater. It is true that we do sometimes produce musical plays, but just now we are dedicated to the classical drama. And," he added hastily, as Marianne's eyes lit up, "don't, I beg, offer to give me Juliet's balcony speech or 'The quality of mercy is not strained.' And don't offer to serve as Miss Terry's understudy. I assure you, it is a harsh, demanding profession, not one I would like to see one of my daughters attempt. Do your friends know you came here today?"
Marianne stared at him in shocked surprise. Still reeling mentally from the abrupt destruction of her lovely daydream, this last question added insult to injury. She drew herself up to her full height (a good inch over five feet).
"That, sir, is not your concern," she said. "Good day."
Mr. Nubbles might have gone after her. But the actors were arriving; someone asked him a question that had to be dealt with immediately. When he turned again, the slight little figure in black had disappeared. She took with her Mr. Nubbles' peace of mind. He was in a foul mood during the rehearsal and the cast of Titus Andronicus called him hard names behind his back.
By the time Marianne reached the door her eyes were flooded with tears. She could scarcely see where she was going. Blindly she pushed through the doors into the lobby. She was hurrying toward the exit when a hand caught her arm.
"I beg your pardon," said a smooth, soft voice. "I called to see Mr. Nubbles on a matter of business, and I could not help overhearing… everything. My name is Wilson. I am the owner and proprietor of the Alhambra Supper Club; and I am prepared to offer you employment, starting tonight."