CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1.
Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smoked
upon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later.
The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard times
over and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young men
thought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million young
women of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. In
his apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle air
from the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his
_Morning Telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre for
rehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant,
eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On the
summit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercises
to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upper
windows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous and
optimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And it
was of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped his
long form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea.
He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself,
but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, had
spoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling on
the carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside.
For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which had
affected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.
The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due
to the improvement in the weather. It had its source in a
conversation which had taken place between himself and Jill's Uncle
Chris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, Mr
Pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully
aware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby's
sympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other's
kindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for Jill, his
hopes that some day it might be returned, the difficulties
complicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of Mrs
Waddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel of
musical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby had
listened with keen attention, and finally had made one of those
luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only
from your man of the world. It was Jill's girlish ambition, it seemed
from Major Selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-picture
world. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this,
said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests,
to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company of
some good musical play, where she could learn from the best masters
so much of the technique of the business. That done, she could go
about her life-work, fortified and competent.
What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?
Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm
and looks, would be wonderful in the movies.
There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.
Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.
"Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"
Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. He
instanced other stars--lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with her
thousands a week. There was no doubt about it--a girl's best friend
was the movies.
"Observe," proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding his
chest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplify
the whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist and
win fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonable
doubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance and
her charm . . . Which of these women whose names you see all along
Broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started,
with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. And
then. . . . Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as I
know nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferent
to you . . . what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announce
that you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is a
momentary pause. 'Not _the_ Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs Peagrim. 'Yes,
the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can you
see her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I can
se no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he had
pictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, there
would be the preliminaries."
"The preliminaries?"
Uncle Chris' voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon Mr
Pilkington.
"Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be done
without money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time
and her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years
for a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at the
top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to
start. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special
company must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, a
star, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accept
her present position temporarily, in order that she may gain
experience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must study
before she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take the
step, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether," said Uncle
Chris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to take
shares in the company yourself . . ."
"Oo . . . !"
". . . is a matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring the
interruption, "for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have other
claims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has taken
all the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may consider
the venture too speculative. Possibly . . . there are a hundred
reasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men--I
can go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will be
glad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that I
personally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call it
risking--any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker's."
He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in his
trouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece of
fluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert a
word.
"How much would you want?" he enquired.
"That," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. I
should have to look into the matter more closely in order to give you
the exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that you
put up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . .
no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin with
more than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don't
suppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself."
"I could manage ten thousand all right."
"Excellent. We make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I go
to my Wall Street friends--I would give you their names, only for the
present, till something definite has been done, that would hardly be
politic--I go to my Wall Street friends, and tell them about the
scheme, and say 'Here is ten thousand dollars! What is your
contribution?' It puts the affair on a business-like basis, you
understand. Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment my
boy, you know. Use your own judgment. I would not think of persuading
you to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. Think it over.
Sleep on it. And, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a word
about it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise her hopes until we are
certain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. And,
of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim."
"Of course."
"Very well, then, my boy." said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leave
you to turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as you
think best. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino?
Capital! There's nothing like it. It did wonders for _me!_
Good-night, good-night!"
Otis Pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with an
interval for sleep, ever since. And the more he thought of it, the
better the scheme appeared to him. He winced a little at the thought
of the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and had
been brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected,
the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its feet, it
would be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt that
this would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill,
as far as his Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--young
Brewster Philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, and
nobody had made the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen with
his bride frequently beneath Mrs Peagrim's roof. Against the higher
strata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite the
reverse, in fact. She liked the society of those whose names were
often in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to Otis
Pilkington, in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his tea
with relish, and when the Japanese valet brought in the toast all
burned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one may
hope, touched the latter's Oriental heart and inspired him with a
desire to serve this best of employers more efficiently.
At half-past ten, Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and began
to put on his clothes to visit the theatre. There was a
rehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, his
mood was as sunny as the day itself.
And the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day had
been in a country where Spring comes early and does its best from the
very start, The blue sky beamed down on a happy city. To and fro the
citizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather.
Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of the
Gotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the main
event, had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of the
kinks out of the "My Heart and I" number, which, with the assistance
of the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.
On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned--literally, because the
stage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electric
light: and figuratively, because things were going even worse than
usual with the "My Heart and I" number, and Johnson Miller, always of
an emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by the
incompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At about the
moment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown and
reached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill),
Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and
the first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutching
his white locks with the other, his voice raised the while in
agonized protest.
"Gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained Mr Miller loudly, "you've
had three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and you
haven't done a damn thing right! You're all over the place! You don't
seem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot of
Keystone Kops! What's the matter with you? You're not doing the
movements I showed you; you're doing some you have invented
yourselves, and they are rotten! I've no doubt you think you can
arrange a number better than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be the
director, so kindly do exactly as I tell you. Don't try to use your
own intelligence, because you haven't any. I'm not blaming you for
it. It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your heads
when you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to think."
Of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, six
looked wounded by this tirade. They had the air of good men
wrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven to
see justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, a
long-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English cut,
seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It was
this youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke
in a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner.
"I say!"
Mr Miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat.
He had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwrought
way up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his india
rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turned and
retraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to take
his share in the conversation.
"What?" he shouted. "Can't hear you!"
"I say, you know, it's my fault, really."
"What?"
"I mean to say, you know . . ."
"What? Speak up, can't you?"
Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing a
melody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that the
services of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left the
music-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. He
placed his arm about Mr Miller's shoulders and his lips to Mr
Miller's left ear, and drew a deep breath.
"He says it is his fault!"
Mr Miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment.
"I know they're not worth their salt!" he replied.
Mr Saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.
"This young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!"
"Tell him I only signed on this morning, laddie," urged the
tweed-clad young man.
"He only joined the company this morning!"
This puzzled Mr Miller.
"How do you mean, warning?" he asked.
Mr Saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort.
"This young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words of
one syllable. "He does not yet know the steps. He says this is his
first day here, so he does not yet know the steps. When he has been
here some more time he will know the steps. But now he does not know
the steps."
"What he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "is
that I don't know the steps."
"He does not know the steps!" roared Mr Saltzburg.
"I know he doesn't know the steps," said Mr Miller. "Why doesn't he
know the steps? He's had long enough to learn them."
"He is new!"
"Hugh?"
"New!"
"Oh, new?"
"Yes, new!"
"Why the devil is he new?" cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to the
truth and filled with a sense of outrage. "Why didn't he join with
the rest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I am
saddled every day with new people to teach? Who engaged him?"
"Who engaged you?" enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.
"Mr Pilkington."
"Mr Pilkington," shouted Mr Saltzburg.
"When?"
"When?"
"Last night."
"Last night."
Mr Miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round,
darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "What can I do?" he
wailed. "My hands are tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We open
in two weeks, and every day I find somebody new in the company to
upset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr Goble and ask to be
released from my contract. I shall . . . Come along, come along, come
along now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we wasting time? The
whole number once more. The whole number once more from the
beginning!"
The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a
finger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He was
not used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateur
theatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In the
breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse and
refrain by the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America,"
he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.
"I say! Is he always like this?"
"Who? Johnny?"
"The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. The
barker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?"
His colleague smiled tolerantly.
"Why, that's nothing!" he replied. "Wait till you see him really cut
loose! That was just a gentle whisper!"
"My God!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leading
lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the
ensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly
down towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his
nearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. A
clapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--
that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be perceived--dimly--
with all his fingers entwined in his hair.
"Clear the stage!" yelled Mr Miller. "Not you!" he shouted, as the
latest addition to the company began to drift off with the others.
"You stay!"
"Me?"
"Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we
shall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg.
Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!"
The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully.
And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant,
entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clock
approached, saw him.
"Whoever is that?" said Nelly.
"New man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "Came this morning."
Nelly turned to Jill.
"He looks just like Mr Rooke!" she exclaimed.
"He _is_ Mr Rooke!" said Jill.
"He can't be!"
"He _is_!"
"But what is he doing here?"
Jill bit her lip.
"That's just what I'm going to ask him myself," she said.
