CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1.
On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resort
which has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there stands
an all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management and
offering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at which
Jill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, its
hospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;
but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and the
customer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silent
gravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voice
and tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. The
members of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by ones
and twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after the
events recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave their
orders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.
The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. It
is the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to live
entirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudeville
performance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights:
and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenery
could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Rose
of America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama no
dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a
half, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus till
half past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences,
interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious
man in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, further
conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak of
debate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the
"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name
of Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock a
complete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, who
had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night,
had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going
to bed.
They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circles
beneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the
make-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 the
ceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning
sunshine out on the boardwalk.
The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh
through a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made during
the interval of waiting for the meal.
"The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She looked
at her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ a
face!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to go
around with it long!"
A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work on
the night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with
a clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.
The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at the
mere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of the
theatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutes
these girls would be feeling completely restored and fit for
anything.
Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of
the restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.
"It's a great life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub, hungrily
attacking her omelette. "And the wortht is yet to come! I thuppose
all you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewritten
from end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the time
we'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's
right with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!"
"One would feel thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk why
one was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing
when one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars a
month."
"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 take
it from me it's sad! Of courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't open
in New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn't thtand it!
Didn't you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They've got him
down 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 not
seen Wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at the
Cosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had given
her little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mind
had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think of
him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to
re-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when the
thought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warming
her with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And then
some sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out. She
remembered the image she had used to explain Derek to Wally, and the
truth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatever Derek
might 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 another
turn.
"And the wortht of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall rehearthe
all 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 with
thirteen girls. Ike's much too thuperstitious"
"But they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked so
hard!"
There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of the
chivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of her
more experienced colleagues. "They'll do anything," the Cherub
assured her. "You don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed Lois
Denham. "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 her
head off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the New
York opening."
"But it's a shame! It isn't fair!"
"If one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with a
prolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business."
And, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleep
again.
The slumber of the Duchess was the signal for a general move. Her
somnolence was catching. The restorative effects of the meal were
beginning to wear off. There was a call for a chorus-rehearsal at
four o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get some
sleep while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her dreams by
means of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were paid;
and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlight
of the empty boardwalk.
Jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seat
facing the ocean. Tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight,
crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walking
to the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharing
a room with the Cherub, paralyzed her.
It was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warm
freshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. The sea sparkled
in the sun. Little waves broke lazily on the gray sand. Jill closed
her eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and her
thoughts went back to what the Cherub had said.
If Wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be thrown
together. She would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure that
she was ready to meet him. Still, he would be somebody to talk to on
subjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebody
who belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard Freddie Rooke
in this light: for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as a
principal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in the
company. Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject for
conversation that did not have to do with "The Rose of America" in
general and his share in it in particular. Jill had given him up, and
he had paired off with Nelly Bryant. The two were inseparable. Jill
had taken one or two meals with them, but Freddie's professional
monologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, were too much for
her. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls in the
company whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimate
friends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. She
was lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tired
mind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thought
that Wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness.
She opened her eyes, blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with an
insidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. She
was just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to the
boarding-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 eyes
were 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 many
dress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. Why they couldn't have
had it comfortably in New York and just have run through the piece
without scenery last night, I don't know, except that in musical
comedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. They
know perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the scenery
into the theatre till the small hours. You must be worn out. Why
aren'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 water
hypnotized her. She closed her eyes again. She could hear Wally
speaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and she
ceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.
Jill awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again at
once. The sun was very strong now. It was one of those prematurely
warm days of early Spring which have all the languorous heat of late
summer. She opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feeling
greatly refreshed. She also discovered that her head was resting on
Wally's shoulder.
"Have I been asleep?"
Wally laughed.
"You have been having what you might call a nap." He massaged his
left arm vigorously. "You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?"
"Good gracious! Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Why
didn't you move?"
"I was afraid you would fall over. You just shut your eyes and
toppled sideways."
"What's the time?"
Wally looked at his watch.
"Just on ten."
"Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp for
about three hours! You must have had an awful time!"
"Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that the
birds 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 if
it happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lots
of doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs go
without 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 a
proper 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. There
was no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she had
known. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining something
valuable 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--to
a pal in trouble?"
"You know what I mean. I can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't as
though . . . I mean . . ."
Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.
"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! We
had all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. You
mustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossed
the boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead the
way. I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothing
more. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an old
friend. 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 the
conversation. 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 human
giraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which he
legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes
nourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had a
conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Goble told
him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience I
have never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rotten
high-brow false-alarm of a show--I am quoting Mr Goble--would have to
be rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alien
right hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrument
selected for the murder of Pilkington's artistic aspirations. I'm
going to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten the
first act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency and
told me to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard ever
since. We shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open in
Baltimore next Monday with practically a different piece. And it's
going to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. A gang of
composers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chucking
out nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. It
means a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of the
numbers 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 a
fortune. He's certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if he
doesn'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 would
sell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washed
his hands of the piece. He's going back to New York this
afternoon,--won't even wait for the opening. Of course, I'm sorry for
the poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellent
central idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by the
way!"
"Yes?"
"Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He's
out!"
"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 as
a Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hit
last season in 'Hoots, Mon!' That sort of thing is always happening
in musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good people
happen to be available at the moment. When you've had one or two
experiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewish
millionaire--invariably against time: they always want the script on
Thursday next at noon--and then changing him again to a Russian
Bolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words 'Death,
where is thy sting?' My heart bleeds for Freddie, but what can one
do? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of my
shows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from an
asylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted that
he should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard that
a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthless
business."
"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 a
shabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which spring
up overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment the
builders 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 quite
comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."
She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry in
and go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind you
go and get a good breakfast."
