1.
On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resortwhich has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there standsan all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management andoffering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at whichJill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, itshospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and thecustomer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silentgravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voiceand tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. Themembers of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by onesand twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after theevents recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave theirorders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.
The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. Itis the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to liveentirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudevilleperformance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights:
and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenerycould be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Roseof America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama nodress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and ahalf, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus tillhalf past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences,interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysteriousman in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, furtherconferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak ofdebate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the nameof Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock acomplete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, whohad partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night,had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before goingto bed.
They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circlesbeneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of themake-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess,haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table.
The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at theceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morningsunshine out on the boardwalk.
The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost freshthrough a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made duringthe interval of waiting for the meal.
"The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She lookedat her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ aface!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to goaround with it long!"A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work onthe night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table witha clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.
The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at themere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of thetheatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutesthese girls would be feeling completely restored and fit foranything.
Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm ofthe restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.
"It's a great life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub, hungrilyattacking her omelette. "And the wortht is yet to come! I thupposeall you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewrittenfrom end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the timewe're on the road.""Why?" Lois Denham spoke with her mouth full. "What's wrong with it?"The Duchess took a sip of coffee.
"Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "What's wrong with it? What'sright with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!""One would feel thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk whyone was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thingwhen one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars amonth.""The numbers are all right," argued Babe. "I don't mean the melodies,but Johnny has arranged some good business.""He always does," said the Southern girl. "Some more buckwheat cakes,please. But what about the book?""I never listen to the book."The Cherub laughed.
"You're too good to yourself! I listened to it right along and takeit from me it's sad! Of courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't openin New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn't thtand it!
Didn't you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They've got himdown to do the rewriting."Jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation,fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up.
"Was Wally--was Mr Mason there?""Sure. Sitting at the back."Jill couldn't have said whether she was glad or sorry. She had notseen Wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at theCosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had givenher little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mindhad been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think ofhim, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy tore-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when thethought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warmingher with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And thensome sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out. Sheremembered the image she had used to explain Derek to Wally, and thetruth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatever Derekmight have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out.
She came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken anotherturn.
"And the wortht of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall reheartheall day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone,and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!""That's right!" agreed the Southern girl.
"They couldn't!" Jill cried.
"You wait!" said the Cherub. "They'll never open in New York withthirteen girls. Ike's much too thuperstitious""But they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked sohard!"There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of thechivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of hermore experienced colleagues. "They'll do anything," the Cherubassured her. "You don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed LoisDenham. "You don't know the half of it!""Wait till you've been in as many shows as I have," said Babe,shaking her red locks. "The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving herhead off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the NewYork opening.""But it's a shame! It isn't fair!""If one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with aprolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business."And, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleepagain.
The slumber of the Duchess was the signal for a general move. Hersomnolence was catching. The restorative effects of the meal werebeginning to wear off. There was a call for a chorus-rehearsal atfour o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get somesleep while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her dreams bymeans of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were paid;and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlightof the empty boardwalk.
Jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seatfacing the ocean. Tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight,crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walkingto the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharinga room with the Cherub, paralyzed her.
It was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warmfreshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. The sea sparkledin the sun. Little waves broke lazily on the gray sand. Jill closedher eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and herthoughts went back to what the Cherub had said.
If Wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be throwntogether. She would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure thatshe was ready to meet him. Still, he would be somebody to talk to onsubjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebodywho belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard Freddie Rookein this light: for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as aprincipal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in thecompany. Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject forconversation that did not have to do with "The Rose of America" ingeneral and his share in it in particular. Jill had given him up, andhe had paired off with Nelly Bryant. The two were inseparable. Jillhad taken one or two meals with them, but Freddie's professionalmonologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, were too much forher. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls in thecompany whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimatefriends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. Shewas lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tiredmind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thoughtthat Wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness.
She opened her eyes, blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with aninsidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. Shewas just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to theboarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side.
"Hullo! Good morning!"Jill looked up.
"Hullo, Wally!""Surprised to see me?""No. Milly Trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night."Wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. His eyeswere tired, and his chin dark and bristly.
"Had breakfast?""Yes, thanks. Have you?""Not yet. How are you feeling?""Rather tired.""I wonder you're not dead. I've been through a good manydress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. Why they couldn't havehad it comfortably in New York and just have run through the piecewithout scenery last night, I don't know, except that in musicalcomedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. Theyknow perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the sceneryinto the theatre till the small hours. You must be worn out. Whyaren't you in bed?""I couldn't face the walk. I suppose I ought to be going, though."She half rose, then sank back again. The glitter of the waterhypnotized her. She closed her eyes again. She could hear Wallyspeaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and sheceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.
Jill awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again atonce. The sun was very strong now. It was one of those prematurelywarm days of early Spring which have all the languorous heat of latesummer. She opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feelinggreatly refreshed. She also discovered that her head was resting onWally's shoulder.
"Have I been asleep?"Wally laughed.
"You have been having what you might call a nap." He massaged hisleft arm vigorously. "You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?""Good gracious! Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Whydidn't you move?""I was afraid you would fall over. You just shut your eyes andtoppled sideways.""What's the time?"Wally looked at his watch.
"Just on ten.""Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp forabout three hours! You must have had an awful time!""Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that thebirds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the'Babes in the Wood.'""But you haven't had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?""Well, I'm not saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim ifit happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lotsof doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs gowithout food for days at a time in order to develop their souls.
Shall I take you back to wherever you're staying? You ought to get aproper sleep in bed.""Don't dream of taking me. Go off and have something to eat.""Oh, that can wait. I'd like to see you safely home."Jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. Therewas no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she hadknown. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining somethingvaluable under false pretences.
"Wally!""Hullo?""You--you oughtn't to be so good to me!""Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--toa pal in trouble?""You know what I mean. I can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't asthough . . . I mean . . ."Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.
"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! Wehad all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. Youmustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossedthe boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead theway. I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothingmore. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an oldfriend. If an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_an old friend behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of theconversation. But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?""Oh, no.""Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr Pilkington.""What!""Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The humangiraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which helegged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takesnourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had aconference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Goble toldhim in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience Ihave never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rottenhigh-brow false-alarm of a show--I am quoting Mr Goble--would have tobe rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alienright hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrumentselected for the murder of Pilkington's artistic aspirations. I'mgoing to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten thefirst act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency andtold me to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard eversince. We shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open inBaltimore next Monday with practically a different piece. And it'sgoing to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. A gang ofcomposers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chuckingout nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. Itmeans a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of thenumbers will have to be re-arranged.""I like work," said Jill. "But I'm sorry for Mr Pilkington.""He's all right. He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make afortune. He's certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if hedoesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it.
From what he said at the close of the proceedings, I fancy he wouldsell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washedhis hands of the piece. He's going back to New York thisafternoon,--won't even wait for the opening. Of course, I'm sorry forthe poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellentcentral idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by theway!""Yes?""Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He'sout!""Oh, no!""Out!" repeated Wally firmly.
"But didn't you think he was good last night?""He was awful! But that isn't why. Goble wanted his part rewritten asa Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hitlast season in 'Hoots, Mon!' That sort of thing is always happeningin musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good peoplehappen to be available at the moment. When you've had one or twoexperiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewishmillionaire--invariably against time: they always want the script onThursday next at noon--and then changing him again to a RussianBolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words 'Death,where is thy sting?' My heart bleeds for Freddie, but what can onedo? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of myshows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from anasylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted thathe should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard thata superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthlessbusiness.""The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed.""Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely.""I hope not.""So do I. What are we stopping for?" Jill had halted in front of ashabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which springup overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment thebuilders have left them.
"I live here.""Here!" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But . . ."Jill smiled.
"We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quitecomfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry inand go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind yougo and get a good breakfast."2.
When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorusrehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparentlybeen taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in thecast preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she found hercolleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!"was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.
The rehearsal passed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock,when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went tosnatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. Itwas not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the overexertionof the previous night, and it was too early for first-nightexcitement to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whosespirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of anoverhanging doom had grown. It seemed now to be merely a question ofspeculating on the victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as thelast addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the ranksof the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was gladwhen it was time to go back to the theatre.
The moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it wasmade clear to them that the doom had fallen. In a chair in thecorner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood oftears, sat the unhappy Duchess, the center of a group of girlsanxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to anoccasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.
"It's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as Jill came in.
Somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to bethe limit. A fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than shewould have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry.
The story of the disaster was brief and easily told. The Duchess,sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letter-box to see ifCuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-lucktelegram. He had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralizedby the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from themanagement, crisp and to the point, informing the Duchess that herservices would not be required that night or thereafter. It was thesubtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "The Roseof America" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had beentimed.
"Poor Mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her twoweeks' notice or her salary. But they can fire her without a centjust because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!"The Duchess burst into fresh flood of tears.
"Don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who wouldhave been in her element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhiteand his friends. "Don't you worry!""It's tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbalconsolation.
"It's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective.
The other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated herstatement that it was the limit. The Duchess cried forlornlythroughout. She had needed this engagement badly. Chorus salaries arenot stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of themduring a New York run, especially if you have spent three years in amilliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the Duchess, inspite of her air of being turned out by Fifth Avenue modistes, couldand did. She had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece wasto be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a goodchance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make allthe difference when you are embarking on married life. Cuthbert, forall his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of theestablishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; andthis disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponedagain. So the Duchess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticizedby some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "Ritz-y,"sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as theywere offered to her.
Jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word ofconsolation. This was not because she was not sorry for the Duchess.
She had never been sorrier for any one in her life. The pathos ofthat swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep intoher sensitive heart. But she revolted at the idea of echoing thebanal words of the others. Words were no good, she thought, as sheset her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--amanagement just about now presumably distending itself with aluxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. Deeds were what shedemanded. All her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, andshe wanted to act impulsively now. She was in much the same Berserkmood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of Bill the parrot onthe occasion of his dispute with Henry of London. The fighting spiritwhich had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had comeback in full measure.
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