3
It was exactly two months since Sally had become engaged to Gerald
Foster; but so rigorously had they kept the secret that nobody at Mrs.
Meecher's so much as suspected it. To Sally, who all her life had hated
concealing things, secrecy of any kind was objectionable: but in this
matter Gerald had shown an odd streak almost of furtiveness in his
character. An announced engagement complicated life. People fussed about
you and bothered you. People either watched you or avoided you. Such
were his arguments, and Sally, who would have glossed over and found
excuses for a disposition on his part towards homicide or arson, put
them down to artistic sensitiveness. There is nobody so sensitive as
your artist, particularly if he be unsuccessful: and when an artist has
so little success that he cannot afford to make a home for the woman he
loves, his sensitiveness presumably becomes great indeed. Putting
herself in his place, Sally could see that a protracted engagement,
known by everybody, would be a standing advertisement of Gerald's
failure to make good: and she acquiesced in the policy of secrecy,
hoping that it would not last long. It seemed absurd to think of Gerald
as an unsuccessful man. He had in him, as the recent Fillmore had
perceived, something dynamic. He was one of those men of whom one could
predict that they would succeed very suddenly and rapidly--overnight, as
it were.
"The party," said Sally, "went off splendidly." They had passed the
boarding-house door, and were walking slowly down the street. "Everybody
enjoyed themselves, I think, even though Fillmore did his best to spoil
things by coming looking like an advertisement of What The Smart Men
Will Wear This Season. You didn't see his waistcoat just now. He had
covered it up. Conscience, I suppose. It was white and bulgy and
gleaming and full up of pearl buttons and everything. I saw Augustus
Bartlett curl up like a burnt feather when he caught sight of it. Still,
time seemed to heal the wound, and everybody relaxed after a bit. Mr.
Faucitt made a speech and I made a speech and cried, and ...oh, it was all
very festive. It only needed you."
"I wish I could have come. I had to go to that dinner, though.
Sally..." Gerald paused, and Sally saw that he was electric with
suppressed excitement. "Sally, the play's going to be put on!"
Sally gave a little gasp. She had lived this moment in anticipation for
weeks. She had always known that sooner or later this would happen. She
had read his plays over and over again, and was convinced that they were
wonderful. Of course, hers was a biased view, but then Elsa Doland also
admired them; and Elsa's opinion was one that carried weight. Elsa was
another of those people who were bound to succeed suddenly. Even old Mr.
Faucitt, who was a stern judge of acting and rather inclined to consider
that nowadays there was no such thing, believed that she was a girl with
a future who would do something big directly she got her chance.
"Jerry!" She gave his arm a hug. "How simply terrific! Then Goble and
Kohn have changed their minds after all and want it? I knew they would."
A slight cloud seemed to dim the sunniness of the author's mood.
"No, not that one," he said reluctantly. "No hope there, I'm afraid. I
saw Goble this morning about that, and he said it didn't add up right.
The one that's going to be put on is 'The Primrose Way.' You remember?
It's got a big part for a girl in it."
"Of course! The one Elsa liked so much. Well, that's just as good.
Who's going to do it? I thought you hadn't sent it out again."
"Well, it happens..." Gerald hesitated once more. "It seems that this
man I was dining with to-night--a man named Cracknell..."
"Cracknell? Not the Cracknell?"
"The Cracknell?"
"The one people are always talking about. The man they call the
Millionaire Kid."
"Yes. Why, do you know him?"
"He was at Harvard with Fillmore. I never saw him, but he must be
rather a painful person."
"Oh, he's all right. Not much brains, of course, but--well, he's all
right. And, anyway, he wants to put the play on."
"Well, that's splendid," said Sally: but she could not get the right
ring of enthusiasm into her voice. She had had ideals for Gerald. She
had dreamed of him invading Broadway triumphantly under the banner of
one of the big managers whose name carried a prestige, and there seemed
something unworthy in this association with a man whose chief claim to
eminence lay in the fact that he was credited by metropolitan gossip
with possessing the largest private stock of alcohol in existence.
"I thought you would be pleased," said Gerald.
"Oh, I am," said Sally.
With the buoyant optimism which never deserted her for long, she had
already begun to cast off her momentary depression. After all, did it
matter who financed a play so long as it obtained a production? A
manager was simply a piece of machinery for paying the bills; and if he
had money for that purpose, why demand asceticism and the finer
sensibilities from him? The real thing that mattered was the question of
who was going to play the leading part, that deftly drawn character
which had so excited the admiration of Elsa Doland. She sought
information on this point.
"Who will play Ruth?" she asked. "You must have somebody wonderful.
It needs a tremendously clever woman. Did Mr. Cracknell say anything
about that?"
"Oh, yes, we discussed that, of course."
"Well?"
"Well, it seems..." Again Sally noticed that odd, almost stealthy
embarrassment. Gerald appeared unable to begin a sentence to-night
without feeling his way into it like a man creeping cautiously down a
dark alley. She noticed it the more because it was so different from his
usual direct method. Gerald, as a rule, was not one of those who
apologize for themselves. He was forthright and masterful and inclined
to talk to her from a height. To-night he seemed different.
He broke off, was silent for a moment, and began again with a question.
"Do you know Mabel Hobson?"
"Mabel Hobson? I've seen her in the 'Follies,' of course."
Sally started. A suspicion had stung her, so monstrous that its
absurdity became manifest the moment it had formed. And yet was it
absurd? Most Broadway gossip filtered eventually into the
boarding-house, chiefly through the medium of that seasoned sport, the
mild young man who thought so highly of the redoubtable Benny Whistler,
and she was aware that the name of Reginald Cracknell, which was always
getting itself linked with somebody, had been coupled with that of Miss
Hobson. It seemed likely that in this instance rumour spoke truth, for
the lady was of that compellingly blonde beauty which attracts the
Cracknells of this world. But even so...
"It seems that Cracknell..." said Gerald. "Apparently this man
Cracknell..." He was finding Sally's bright, horrified gaze somewhat
trying. "Well, the fact is Cracknell believes in Mabel Hobson...and...
well, he thinks this part would suit her."
"Oh, Jerry!"
Could infatuation go to such a length? Could even the spacious heart of
a Reginald Cracknell so dominate that gentleman's small size in heads as
to make him entrust a part like Ruth in "The Primrose Way" to one who,
when desired by the producer of her last revue to carry a bowl of roses
across the stage and place it on a table, had rebelled on the plea that
she had not been engaged as a dancer? Surely even lovelorn Reginald
could perceive that this was not the stuff of which great emotional
actresses are made.
"Oh, Jerry!" she said again.
There was an uncomfortable silence. They turned and walked back in the
direction of the boarding-house. Somehow Gerald's arm had managed to get
itself detached from Sally's. She was conscious of a curious dull ache
that was almost like a physical pain.
"Jerry! Is it worth it?" she burst out vehemently.
The question seemed to sting the young man into something like his
usual decisive speech.
"Worth it? Of course it's worth it. It's a Broadway production.
That's all that matters. Good heavens! I've been trying long enough to
get a play on Broadway, and it isn't likely that I'm going to chuck away
my chance when it comes along just because one might do better in the
way of casting."
"But, Jerry! Mabel Hobson! It's... it's murder! Murder in the first
degree."
"Nonsense. She'll be all right. The part will play itself. Besides,
she has a personality and a following, and Cracknell will spend all the
money in the world to make the thing a success. And it will be a start,
whatever happens. Of course, it's worth it."
Fillmore would have been impressed by this speech. He would have
recognized and respected in it the unmistakable ring which characterizes
even the lightest utterances of those who get there. On Sally it had not
immediately that effect. Nevertheless, her habit of making the best of
things, working together with that primary article of her creed that the
man she loved could do no wrong, succeeded finally in raising her
spirits. Of course Jerry was right. It would have been foolish to refuse
a contract because all its clauses were not ideal.
"You old darling," she said affectionately attaching herself to the
vacant arm once more and giving it a penitent squeeze, "you're quite
right. Of course you are. I can see it now. I was only a little startled
at first. Everything's going to be wonderful. Let's get all our chickens
out and count 'em. How are you going to spend the money?"
"I know how I'm going to spend a dollar of it," said Gerald completely
restored.
"I mean the big money. What's a dollar?"
"It pays for a marriage-licence."
Sally gave his arm another squeeze.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said. "Look at this man. Observe him. My
partner!"
