3
Alas, poor Fillmore! He stood in the middle of the stage with the
lightning of Mr. Bunbury's wrath playing about his defenceless head, and
Sally, recovering from her first astonishment, sent a wave of sisterly
commiseration floating across the theatre to him. She did not often pity
Fillmore. His was a nature which in the sunshine of prosperity had a
tendency to grow a trifle lush; and such of the minor ills of life as
had afflicted him during the past three years, had, she considered, been
wholesome and educative and a matter not for concern but for
congratulation. Unmoved, she had watched him through that lean period
lunching on coffee and buckwheat cakes, and curbing from motives of
economy a somewhat florid taste in dress. But this was different. This
was tragedy. Somehow or other, blasting disaster must have smitten the
Fillmore bank-roll, and he was back where he had started. His presence
here this morning could mean nothing else.
She recalled his words at the breakfast-table about financing the play.
How like Fillmore to try to save his face for the moment with an
outrageous bluff, though well aware that he would have to reveal the
truth sooner or later. She realized how he must have felt when he had
seen her at the hotel. Yes, she was sorry for Fillmore.
And, as she listened to the fervent eloquence of Mr. Bunbury, she
perceived that she had every reason to be. Fillmore was having a bad
time. One of the chief articles of faith in the creed of all theatrical
producers is that if anything goes wrong it must be the fault of the
assistant stage manager and Mr. Bunbury was evidently orthodox in his
views. He was showing oratorical gifts of no mean order. The paper-knife
seemed to inspire him. Gradually, Sally began to get the feeling that
this harmless, necessary stage-property was the source from which sprang
most, if not all, of the trouble in the world. It had disappeared
before. Now it had disappeared again. Could Mr. Bunbury go on
struggling in a universe where this sort of thing happened? He seemed to
doubt it. Being a red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent American man, he
would try hard, but it was a hundred to one shot that he would get
through. He had asked for a paper-knife. There was no paper-knife. Why
was there no paper-knife? Where was the paper-knife anyway?
"I assure you, Mr. Bunbury," bleated the unhappy Fillmore, obsequiously.
"I placed it with the rest of the properties after the last rehearsal."
"You couldn't have done."
"I assure you I did."
"And it walked away, I suppose," said Miss Hobson with cold scorn,
pausing in the operation of brightening up her lower lip with a
lip-stick.
A calm, clear voice spoke.
"It was taken away," said the calm, clear voice.
Miss Winch had added herself to the symposium. She stood beside
Fillmore, chewing placidly. It took more than raised voices and
gesticulating hands to disturb Miss Winch.
"Miss Hobson took it," she went on in her cosy, drawling voice. "I saw
her."
Sensation in court. The prisoner, who seemed to feel his position
deeply, cast a pop-eyed glance full of gratitude at his advocate. Mr.
Bunbury, in his capacity of prosecuting attorney, ran his fingers
through his hair in some embarrassment, for he was regretting now that
he had made such a fuss. Miss Hobson thus assailed by an underling, spun
round and dropped the lip-stick, which was neatly retrieved by the
assiduous Mr. Cracknell. Mr. Cracknell had his limitations, but he was
rather good at picking up lip-sticks.
"What's that? I took it? I never did anything of the sort."
"Miss Hobson took it after the rehearsal yesterday," drawled Gladys
Winch, addressing the world in general, "and threw it negligently at the
theatre cat."
Miss Hobson seemed taken aback. Her composure was not restored by Mr.
Bunbury's next remark. The producer, like his company, had been feeling
the strain of the past few days, and, though as a rule he avoided
anything in the nature of a clash with the temperamental star, this
matter of the missing paper-knife had bitten so deeply into his soul
that he felt compelled to speak his mind.
"In future, Miss Hobson, I should be glad if, when you wish to throw
anything at the cat, you would not select a missile from the property
box. Good heavens!" he cried, stung by the way fate was maltreating him,
"I have never experienced anything like this before. I have been
producing plays all my life, and this is the first time this has
happened. I have produced Nazimova. Nazimova never threw paper-knives at
cats."
"Well, I hate cats," said Miss Hobson, as though that settled it.
"I," murmured Miss Winch, "love little pussy, her fur is so warm, and if
I don't hurt her she'll do me no..."
"Oh, my heavens!" shouted Gerald Foster, bounding from his seat and for
the first time taking a share in the debate. "Are we going to spend the
whole day arguing about cats and paper-knives? For goodness' sake, clear
the stage and stop wasting time."
Miss Hobson chose to regard this intervention as an affront.
"Don't shout at me, Mr. Foster!"
"I wasn't shouting at you."
"If you have anything to say to me, lower your voice."
"He can't," observed Miss Winch. "He's a tenor."
"Nazimova never..." began Mr. Bunbury.
Miss Hobson was not to be diverted from her theme by reminiscences of
Nazimova. She had not finished dealing with Gerald.
"In the shows I've been in," she said, mordantly, "the author wasn't
allowed to go about the place getting fresh with the leading lady. In
the shows I've been in the author sat at the back and spoke when he was
spoken to. In the shows I've been in..."
Sally was tingling all over. This reminded her of the dog-fight on the
Roville sands. She wanted to be in it, and only the recognition that it
was a private fight and that she would be intruding kept her silent. The
lure of the fray, however, was too strong for her wholly to resist it.
Almost unconsciously, she had risen from her place and drifted down the
aisle so as to be nearer the white-hot centre of things. She was now
standing in the lighted space by the orchestra-pit, and her presence
attracted the roving attention of Miss Hobson, who, having concluded her
remarks on authors and their legitimate sphere of activity, was looking
about for some other object of attack.
"Who the devil," inquired Miss Hobson, "is that?"
Sally found herself an object of universal scrutiny and wished that she
had remained in the obscurity of the back rows.
"I am Mr. Nicholas' sister," was the best method of identification that
she could find.
"Who's Mr. Nicholas?"
Fillmore timidly admitted that he was Mr. Nicholas. He did it in the
manner of one in the dock pleading guilty to a major charge, and at
least half of those present seemed surprised. To them, till now,
Fillmore had been a nameless thing, answering to the shout of "Hi!"
Miss Hobson received the information with a laugh of such exceeding
bitterness that strong men blanched and Mr. Cracknell started so
convulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud.
"Now, sweetie!" urged Mr. Cracknell.
Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. She
recommended his fading away, and he did so--into his collar. He seemed
to feel that once well inside his collar he was "home" and safe from
attack.
"I'm through!" announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presence
had in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw.
"This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot,
but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fill
the theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time to
quit."
"But, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface.
"Oh, go and choke yourself!" said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinging
round like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the sound
of it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shot
up stage and disappeared.
"Hello, Sally," said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. The
battle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment.
"When did you get back?"
Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage to
form a bridge over the orchestra pit.
"Hello, Elsa."
The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and Gerald were
pacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore had
subsided into a chair.
"Do you know Gladys Winch?" asked Elsa.
Sally shook hands with the placid lodestar of her brother's affections.
Miss Winch, on closer inspection, proved to have deep grey eyes and
freckles. Sally's liking for her increased.
"Thank you for saving Fillmore from the wolves," she said. "They would
have torn him in pieces but for you."
"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Winch.
"It was noble."
"Oh, well!"
"I think," said Sally, "I'll go and have a talk with Fillmore. He looks
as though he wanted consoling."
She made her way to that picturesque ruin.
