CHAPTER II
THE FIRST NIGHT AT THE LEICESTER
I
The front-door closed softly behind the theatre-party. Dinner wasover, and Barker had just been assisting the expedition out of theplace. Sensitive to atmosphere, he had found his share in the dinner alittle trying. It had been a strained meal, and what he liked was aclatter of conversation and everybody having a good time and enjoyingthemselves.
"Ellen!" called Barker, as he proceeded down the passage to the emptydining-room. "Ellen!"
Mrs. Barker appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her workfor the evening, like her husband's, was over. Presently what istechnically called a "useful girl" would come in to wash up thedishes, leaving the evening free for social intercourse. Mrs. Barkerhad done well by her patrons that night, and now she wanted a quietchat with Barker over a glass of Freddie Rooke's port.
"Have they gone, Horace?" she asked, following him into thedining-room.
Barker selected a cigar from Freddie's humidor, crackled it againsthis ear, smelt it, clipped off the end, and lit it. He took thedecanter and filled his wife's glass, then mixed himself awhisky-and-soda.
"Happy days!" said Barker. "Yes, they've gone!"
"I didn't see her ladyship."
"You didn't miss much! A nasty, dangerous specimen, _she_ is! 'Alwaysmerry and bright,' I don't think. I wish you'd have had my job ofwaiting on 'em, Ellen, and me been the one to stay in the kitchen safeout of it all. That's all I say! It's no treat to _me_ to 'and thedishes when the atmosphere's what you might call electric. I didn'tenvy them that _vol-au-vent_ of yours, Ellen, good as it smelt. Bettera dinner of 'erbs where love is than a stalled ox and 'atredtherewith," said Barker, helping himself to a walnut.
"Did they have words?"
Barker shook his head impatiently.
"That sort don't have words, Ellen. They just sit and goggle."
"How did her ladyship seem to hit it off with Miss Mariner, Horace?"
Barker uttered a dry laugh.
"Ever seen a couple of strange dogs watching each other sort of wary?That was them! Not that Miss Mariner wasn't all that was pleasant andnice-spoken. She's all right, Miss Mariner is. She's a little queen.It wasn't her fault the dinner you'd took so much trouble over wasmore like an evening in the Morgue than a Christian dinner-party. Shetried to help things along best she could. But what with Sir Derekchewing his lip 'alf the time and his mother acting about as matey asa pennorth of ice-cream, she didn't have a chance. As for theguv'nor--well, I wish you could have seen him, that's all. You know,Ellen, sometimes I'm not altogether easy in my mind about theguv'nor's mental balance. He knows how to buy cigars, and you tell mehis port is good--I never touch it myself--but sometimes he seems tome to go right off his onion. Just sat there, he did, all throughdinner, looking as if he expected the good food to rise up and bitehim in the face, and jumping nervous when I spoke to him. It's not myfault," said Barker, aggrieved. "_I_ can't give gentlemen warningbefore I ask 'em if they'll have sherry or hock. I can't ring a bellor toot a horn to show 'em I'm coming. It's my place to bend over andwhisper in their ear, and they've no right to leap about in theirseats and make me spill good wine. (You'll see the spot close by whereyou're sitting, Ellen. Jogged my wrist, he did!) I'd like to know whypeople in the spear of life which these people are in can't behavethemselves rational, same as we do. When we were walking out and Itook you to have tea with my mother, it was one of the pleasantestmeals I ever ate. Talk about 'armony! It was a love-feast!"
"Your ma and I took to each other right from the start, Horace," saidMrs. Barker softly. "That's the difference."
"Well, any woman with any sense would take to Miss Mariner. If I toldyou how near I came to spilling the sauce-boat accidentally over thatold fossil's head, you'd be surprised, Ellen. She just sat therebrooding like an old eagle. If you ask my opinion, Miss Mariner's along sight too good for her precious son!"
"Oh, but Horace! Sir Derek's a baronet!"
"What of it? Kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith thanNorman blood, aren't they?"
"You're talking Socialism, Horace."
"No, I'm not. I'm talking sense. I don't know who Miss Mariner'sparents may have been--I never enquired--but anyone can see she's alady born and bred. But do you suppose the path of true love is goingto run smooth, for all that? Not it! She's got a 'ard time ahead ofher, that poor girl!"
"Horace!" Mrs. Barker's gentle heart was wrung. The situation hintedat by her husband was no new one--indeed, it formed the basis of atleast fifty per cent of the stories in the True Heart NoveletteSeries, of which she was a determined reader--but it had never failedto touch her. "Do you think her ladyship means to come between themand wreck their romance?"
"I think she means to have a jolly good try."
"But Sir Derek has his own money, hasn't he? I mean it's not like whenSir Courtenay Travers fell in love with the milkmaid and was dependenton his mother, the Countess, for everything. Sir Derek can afford todo what he pleases, can't he?"
Barker shook his head tolerantly. The excellence of the cigar and thesoothing qualities of the whisky-and-soda had worked upon him, and hewas feeling less ruffled.
"You don't understand these things," he said. "Women like her ladyshipcan talk a man into anything and out of anything. I wouldn't care,only you can see the poor girl is mad over the feller. What she findsattractive in him, I can't say, but that's her own affair."
"He's very handsome, Horace, with those flashing eyes and that sternmouth," argued Mrs. Barker.
Barker sniffed.
"Have it your own way," he said. "It's no treat to _me_ to see hiseyes flash, and if he'd put that stern mouth of his to some better usethan advising the guv'nor to lock up the cigars and trouser the key,I'd be better pleased. If there's one thing I can't stand," saidBarker, "it's not to be trusted!" He lifted his cigar and looked at itcensoriously. "I thought so! Burning all down one side. They will dothat if you light 'em careless. Oh, well," he continued, rising andgoing to the humidor, "there's plenty more where that came from. Outof evil cometh good," said Barker philosophically. "If the guv'norhadn't been in such a overwrought state to-night, he'd have rememberednot to leave the key in the keyhole. Help yourself to another glass ofport, Ellen, and let's enjoy ourselves!"
II
When one considers how full of his own troubles, how weighed down withthe problems of his own existence the average playgoer generally iswhen enters a theatre, it is remarkable that dramatists ever find itpossible to divert and entertain whole audiences for a space ofseveral hours. As regards at least three of those who had assembled towitness its opening performance, the author of "Tried by Fire," at theLeicester Theatre, undoubtedly had his work cut out for him.
It has perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the remarks of Barker,the valet, that the little dinner at Freddie Rooke's had not been anunqualified success. Searching the records for an adequately gloomyparallel to the taxi-cab journey to the theatre which followed it, onecan only think of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. And yet even thatwas probably not conducted in dead silence.
The only member of the party who was even remotely happy was,curiously enough, Freddie Rooke. Originally Freddie had obtained threetickets for "Tried by Fire." The unexpected arrival of Lady Underhillhad obliged him to buy a fourth, separated by several rows from theother three. This, as he had told Derek at breakfast, was the seat heproposed to occupy himself.
It consoles the philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, evenif man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upward, it is stillpossible for small things to make him happy. The thought of beingseveral rows away from Lady Underhill had restored Freddie'sequanimity like a tonic. It thrilled him like the strains of somegrand, sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. If Freddie Rooke hadbeen asked at that moment to define happiness in a few words, he wouldhave replied that it consisted in being several rows away from LadyUnderhill.
The theatre was nearly full when Freddie's par
ty arrived. TheLeicester Theatre had been rented for the season by the newesttheatrical knight, Sir Chester Portwood, who had a large following;and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final issue, itwould do at least one night's business. The stalls were ablaze withjewellery and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensivescents pervaded the air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeianpeppermint that emanated from the pit. The boxes were filled, and upin the gallery grim-faced patrons of the drama, who had paid theirshillings at the door and intended to get a shilling's worth ofentertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the curtain torise.
The lights shot up beyond the curtain. The house-lights dimmed.Conversation ceased. The curtain rose. Jill wriggled herselfcomfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand into Derek's. She felta glow of happiness as it closed over hers. All, she told herself, wasright with the world.
All, that is to say, except the drama which was unfolding on thestage. It was one of those plays which start wrong and never recover.By the end of the first ten minutes there had spread through thetheatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the audience at anopening performance when it realizes that it is going to be bored. Asort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. The dress-circle wascoughing. Up in the gallery there was grim silence.
Sir Chester Portwood was an actor-manager who had made his reputationin light comedy of the tea-cup school. His numerous admirers attendeda first night at his theatre in a mood of comfortable anticipation,assured of something pleasant and frothy with a good deal of brightdialogue and not too much plot. To-night he seemed to have fallen avictim to that spirit of ambition which intermittently attacksactor-managers of his class, expressing itself in an attempt to provethat, having established themselves securely as light comedians, theycan, like the lady reciter, turn right around and be serious. The onething which the London public felt that it was safe from in a Portwoodplay was heaviness, and "Tried by Fire" was grievously heavy. It was apoetic drama, and the audience, though loath to do anybody aninjustice, was beginning to suspect that it was written in blankverse.
The acting did nothing to dispel the growing uneasiness. Sir Chesterhimself, apparently oppressed by the weightiness of the occasion andthe responsibility of offering an unfamiliar brand of goods to hispublic, had dropped his customary debonair method of delivering linesand was mouthing his speeches. It was good gargling, but badelocution. And, for some reason best known to himself, he hadentrusted the role of the heroine to a doll-like damsel with a lisp,of whom the audience disapproved sternly from her initial entrance.
It was about half-way through the first act that Jill, whose attentionhad begun to wander, heard a soft groan at her side. The seats whichFreddie Rooke had bought were at the extreme end of the seventh row.There was only one other seat in the row, and, as Derek had placed hismother on his left and was sitting between her and Jill, the latterhad this seat on her right. It had been empty at the rise of thecurtain, but in the past few minutes a man had slipped silently intoit. The darkness prevented Jill from seeing his face, but it was plainthat he was suffering, and her sympathy went out to him. His opinionof the play so obviously coincided with her own.
Presently the first act ended, and the lights went up. There was aspatter of insincere applause from the stalls, echoed in thedress-circle. It grew fainter in the upper circle, and did not reachthe gallery at all.
"Well?" said Jill to Derek. "What do you think of it?"
"Too awful for words," said Derek sternly.
He leaned forward to join the conversation which had started betweenLady Underhill and some friends she had discovered in the seats infront; and Jill, turning, became aware that the man on her right waslooking at her intently. He was a big man with rough, wiry hair and ahumorous mouth. His age appeared to be somewhere in the middletwenties. Jill, in the brief moment in which their eyes met, decidedthat he was ugly, but with an ugliness that was rather attractive. Hereminded her of one of those large, loose, shaggy dogs that breakthings in drawing-rooms but make admirable companions for the openroad. She had a feeling that he would look better in tweeds in a fieldthan in evening dress in a theatre. He had nice eyes. She could notdistinguish their colour, but they were frank and friendly.
All this Jill noted with her customary quickness, and then she lookedaway. For an instant she had had an odd feeling that somewhere she hadmet this man or somebody very like him before, but the impressionvanished. She also had the impression that he was still looking ather, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not attempt toverify the suspicion.
Between them, as they sat side by side, there inserted itself suddenlythe pinkly remorseful face of Freddie Rooke. Freddie, havingskirmished warily in the aisle until it was clear that LadyUnderhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a seat inthe row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner wholiked refreshment between the acts. Freddie was feeling deeply ashamedof himself. He felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of no slightmagnitude.
"I'm awfully sorry about this," he said penitently. "I mean, ropingyou in to listen to this frightful tosh! When I think I might have gotseats just as well for any one of half a dozen topping musicalcomedies, I feel like kicking myself with some vim. But, honestly, howwas I to know? I never dreamed we were going to be let in for anythingof this sort. Portwood's plays are usually so dashed bright and snappyand all that. Can't think what he was doing, putting on a thing likethis. Why, it's blue round the edges!"
The man on Jill's right laughed sharply.
"Perhaps," he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from theasylum long enough to put up the money to produce it."
If there is one thing that startles the well-bred Londoner and throwshim off his balance, it is to be addressed unexpectedly by a stranger.Freddie's sense of decency was revolted. A voice from the tomb couldhardly have shaken him more. All the traditions to which he had beenbrought up had gone to solidify his belief that this was one of thethings which didn't happen. Absolutely it wasn't done. During anearthquake or a shipwreck and possibly on the Day of Judgment, yes.But only then. At other times, unless they wanted a match or the timeor something, chappies did not speak to fellows to whom they had notbeen introduced. He was far too amiable to snub the man, but to go onwith this degrading scene was out of the question. There was nothingfor it but flight.
"Oh, ah, yes," he mumbled. "Well," he added to Jill, "I suppose I mayas well be toddling back. See you later and so forth."
And with a faint "Good-bye-ee!" Freddie removed himself, thoroughlyunnerved.
Jill looked out of the corner of her eye at Derek. He was stilloccupied with the people in front. She turned to the man on her right.She was not the slave to etiquette that Freddie was. She was much toointerested in life to refrain from speaking to strangers.
"You shocked him!" she said dimpling.
"Yes. It broke Freddie all up, didn't it!"
It was Jill's turn to be startled. She looked at him in astonishment.
"Freddie?"
"That _was_ Freddie Rooke, wasn't it? Surely I wasn't mistaken?"
"But--do you know him? He didn't seem to know you."
"These are life's tragedies He has forgotten me. My boyhood friend!"
"Oh, you were at school with him?"
"No. Freddie went to Winchester, if I remember. I was at Haileybury.Our acquaintance was confined to the holidays. My people lived nearhis people in Worcestershire."
"Worcestershire!" Jill leaned forward excitedly. "But I used to livenear Freddie in Worcestershire myself when I was small. I knew himthere when he was a boy. We must have met!"
"We met all right."
Jill wrinkled her forehead. That odd familiar look was in his eyesagain. But memory failed to respond. She shook her head.
"I don't remember you," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Never mind. Perhaps the recollection would have been painful."
"How do you mean, painful?"
"Well, looking back, I
can see that I must have been a very unpleasantchild. I have always thought it greatly to the credit of my parentsthat they let me grow up. It would have been so easy to have droppedsomething heavy on me out of a window. They must have been tempted ahundred times, but they refrained. Yes, I was a great pest around thehome. My only redeeming point was the way I worshipped _you_!"
"What!"
"Oh, yes. You probably didn't notice it at the time, for I had acurious way of expressing my adoration. But you remain the brightestmemory of a chequered youth."
Jill searched his face with grave eyes, then shook her head again.
"Nothing stirs?" asked the man sympathetically.
"It's too maddening! Why does one forget things?" She reflected. "Youaren't Bobby Morrison?"
"I am not. What is more, I never was!"
Jill dived into the past once more and emerged with anotherpossibility.
"Or--Charlie--Charlie what was it?--Charlie Field?"
"You wound me! Have you forgotten that Charlie Field wore velvet LordFauntleroy suits and long golden curls? My past is not smirched withanything like that."
"Would I remember your name if you told me?"
"I don't know. I've forgotten yours. Your surname, that is. Of course,I remember that your Christian name was Jill. It has always seemed tome the prettiest monosyllable in the language." He looked at herthoughtfully. "It's odd how little you've altered in looks. Freddie'sjust the same, too, only larger. And he didn't wear an eye-glass inthose days, though I can see he was bound to later on. And yet I'vechanged so much that you can't place me. It shows what a wearing lifeI must have led. I feel like Rip van Winkle. Old and withered. Butthat may be just the result of watching this play."
"It is pretty terrible, isn't it?"
"Worse than that. Looking at it dispassionately, I find it theextreme, ragged, outermost edge of the limit. Freddie had the correctdescription of it. He's a great critic."
"I really do think it's the worst thing I have ever seen."
"I don't know what plays you have seen, but I feel you're right."
"Perhaps the second act's better," said Jill optimistically.
"It's worse. I know that sounds like boasting, but it's true. I feellike getting up and making a public apology."
"But ... Oh!"
Jill turned scarlet. A monstrous suspicion had swept over her.
"The only trouble is," went on her companion, "that the audience wouldundoubtedly lynch me. And, though it seems improbable just at thepresent moment, it may be that life holds some happiness for me that'sworth waiting for. Anyway, I'd rather not be torn limb from limb. Amessy finish! I can just see them rending me asunder in a spasm ofperfectly justifiable fury. 'She loves me!' Off comes a leg. 'Sheloves me not!' Off comes an arm. No, I think on the whole I'll lielow. Besides, why should I care? Let 'em suffer. It's their own fault.They _would_ come!"
Jill had been trying to interrupt the harangue. She was greatlyconcerned.
"Did you _write_ the play?"
The man nodded.
"You are quite right to speak in that horrified tone. But betweenourselves and on the understanding that you don't get up and denounceme, I did."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"Not half so sorry as I am, believe me!"
"I mean, I wouldn't have said...."
"Never mind. You didn't tell me anything I didn't know." The lightsbegan to go down. He rose. "Well, they're off again. Perhaps you willexcuse me? I don't feel quite equal to assisting any longer at thewake. If you want something to occupy your mind during the next act,try to remember my name."
He slid from his seat and disappeared. Jill clutched at Derek.
"Oh, Derek, it's too awful. I've just been talking to the man whowrote this play, and I told him it was the worst thing I had everseen!"
"Did you?" Derek snorted. "Well, it's about time somebody told him!" Athought seemed to strike him. "Why, who is he? I didn't know you knewhim."
"I don't. I don't even know his name."
"His name, according to the programme, is John Grant. Never heard ofhim before. Jill, I wish you would not talk to people you don't know,"said Derek with a note of annoyance in his voice. "You can never tellwho they are."
"But...."
"Especially with my mother here. You must be more careful."
The curtain rose. Jill saw the stage mistily. From childhood up, shehad never been able to cure herself of an unfortunate sensitivenesswhen sharply spoken to by those she loved. A rebuking world she couldface with a stout heart, but there had always been just one or twopeople whose lightest word of censure could crush her. Her father hadalways had that effect upon her, and now Derek had taken his place.
But if there had only been time to explain.... Derek could not objectto her chatting with a friend of her childhood, even if she hadcompletely forgotten him and did not remember his name even now. JohnGrant? Memory failed to produce any juvenile John Grant for herinspection.
Puzzling over this problem, Jill missed much of the beginning of thesecond act. Hers was a detachment which the rest of the audience wouldgladly have shared. For the poetic drama, after a bad start, was nowplunging into worse depths of dullness. The coughing had become almostcontinuous. The stalls, supported by the presence of large droves ofSir Chester's personal friends, were struggling gallantly to maintaina semblance of interest, but the pit and gallery had plainly given uphope. The critic of a weekly paper of small circulation, who had beenshoved up in the upper circle, grimly jotted down the phrase"apathetically received" on his programme. He had come to the theatrethat night in an aggrieved mood, for managers usually put him in thedress-circle. He got out his pencil again. Another phrase had occurredto him, admirable for the opening of his article. "At the LeicesterTheatre," he wrote, "where Sir Chester Portwood presented 'Tried byFire,' dullness reigned supreme...."
But you never know. Call no evening dull till it is over. Howeveruninteresting its early stages may have been that night was to be asanimated and exciting as any audience could desire--a night to belooked back to and talked about, for just as the critic of _LondonGossip_ wrote those damning words on his programme, guiding his penciluncertainly in the dark, a curious yet familiar odour stole over thehouse.
The stalls got it first, and sniffed. It rose to the dress-circle, andthe dress-circle sniffed. Floating up, it smote the silent gallery.And, suddenly, coming to life with a single-minded abruptness, thegallery ceased to be silent.
"Fire!"
Sir Chester Portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech, stoppedand looked apprehensively over his shoulder. The girl with the lisp,who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the long speech,screamed loudly. The voice of an unseen stage-hand called thunderouslyto an invisible "Bill" to commere quick. And from the scenery on theprompt side there curled lazily across the stage a black wisp ofsmoke.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
"Just," said a voice at Jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" Themysterious author was back in his seat again.
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