Lord Loveland Discovers America
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They continued to ascend, and the actor-manager stopped before the first door at the head of the second stairway which led to the top story of the hotel.
"Here you are," he said, and with a light knock which was a notification, not a request, he flung the door open.
On a narrow bed visible from the threshold a young man, hardly more than a boy, was stretched, reading something that looked like MSS. He glanced round, but did not move, on seeing Mr. Jacobus and a stranger.
"I thought you said this was my room?" exclaimed Loveland, startled.
"So it is, and there's your room-mate. Didn't know whether you'd be in, Ed. I can introduce you to each other, right now. Mr. Ed Binney, our property man, prompter, and second villain. Mr. Perceval Gordon, of England, our new juvenile. Now you know each other; and I guess, Eddy, you can put Mr. Gordon up to all he needs to know."
This was worse than the Bat Hotel, where each man who earned twenty-five cents could have his own cubicle. But, now, Loveland was not paying his own way. The "management" was to do that; and feed him, too. As he had but a quarter in the world, thrust upon him as a loan or gift by generous Bill, Loveland was not in a position to be critical. Here he was, and here he would have to stay, till he heard from home, or something "turned up."
As for hearing from home, he had begun almost to despair, for his two cables had remained unanswered now these many dreary days. Still, after an interval of more waiting for a telegram from his mother, he had written to her and to Betty Harborough, ashamed to take outsiders into the deepest secrets of his humiliating adventures. But at best, it would be a fortnight before Bill Willing could forward to some address yet to be given, a letter from across the sea; and meanwhile Loveland was a slave of necessity – if not of Jack Jacobus.
That gentleman, having acquitted himself of his duty to the juvenile lead, disappeared, banging the door, leaving the old occupant and the new occupant of the mean, bare room to make each other's acquaintance.
Mr. Binney did not think it worth while to get up, as the juvenile lead was no guest of his, but he raised himself on one elbow, and observed Loveland with an interest that might or might not develop into friendliness. He was thin, pale, and delicate-looking, but he had bright eyes – almost too bright for health – and a firm chin.
For a moment Val resented the youth's existence so keenly that he did not trust himself to speak; but brief reflection reminded him that after all, he was the intruder. A short time ago he would have been intolerant of circumstances even less disagreeable, such as finding himself forced to share a cabin on shipboard, or a wagon-lit compartment, after expecting to travel alone. But much water had gone under the mill of his pride since then; and besides he had learned, greatly to his own surprise, that kindly, agreeable human beings can be found in the lowest classes and queerest circumstances.
Ed Binney looked as though he might have pleasant qualities, if approached in the right way, so with amazing self-restraint Loveland refrained even from the mild insult of a disgusted glance. He said, in his nice voice, that he hoped Mr. Binney wouldn't mind his coming, as he really couldn't help himself. Whereupon Mr. Binney grinned, showing teeth white as a girl's, and replied that if it weren't Mr. Gordon it would be someone else, who might be worse, as it struck Mr. Binney that Mr. Gordon would at least be fond of washing himself.
To this Mr. Gordon responded that there were few things he liked better, but it seemed as if there wouldn't be much opportunity at Smith's Hotel. You had to do it in sections, with a washbowl, said Mr. Binney, but never mind, you got there just the same, if you were in earnest. Then they both laughed, and Binney exclaimed with evident relief, that he was jolly glad Gordon wasn't the sort of boy who put on airs. He'd been afraid at first sight that was the kind he was, but now he guessed it was all the high collar. The feeling was for low, in Miss de Lisle's company, yet he didn't know but those stove pipe ones had a sort of style about 'em.
Then he bounced off his tremulous cot (which had a patchwork quilt somewhat the worse for contact with his boots and was the twin of another little iron-framed bed in a far corner). He showed his room-mate "the ropes"; in other words, which "bureau drawers" were at the newcomer's disposition; where he had better keep his toothbrush, and so on. He confided to Loveland the fact that he himself had not been long in the company, but had come from a better one, which he would now regret if the "one night" stands had not been too much for his strength. "If your lungs are always playing you tricks, you have to put up with barn-stormers, for at least they give you week stands, and most of the hotels throw in fires free," he explained. "I can see that you've stepped down in the world a bit, too, so we ought to have a fellow feelin' for each other."
While Loveland made himself presentable for the early dinner, Ed Binney went on to sketch the members of the "crowd," though in a manner very different from the manager's sarcastic descriptive efforts. He said that Jacobus was a tyrant and a bully, but that he could act; that everyone except Miss Moon was afraid of "J. J.," and she wouldn't be afraid of an Indian chief on the war path: that Miss de Lisle didn't dare say her soul was her own, or that black was black, if old Jack remarked that it wasn't; that Jacobus had done a very good thing for himself in getting hold of Lillie as a star, although she had no money – for she was a peach, a live wire, just the sort of little gal to be a "go" at towns like this. "Folks are wild about her, she's as pretty and as dainty as they make 'em, a whole haystack above what they generally see in these barns," went on Ed. "But she needs managin' – and gee, Jack and his wife do manage her. But the old girl's jealous. I don't know how long the show will last, for if she says stop, Jack stops, you bet. He's as scared of her as everybody else is of him. She runs the shebang, and there's two of her sons by her first husband in it. They can't act, and they can't look, but by gum, they're good to their mother!"
Into the midst of his discourse crashed a ferocious dinner-bell, and in sheer self-defense they rushed downstairs, in the hope of stopping the clamour by their presence.
The dining-room opened off the long passage on the ground floor, and already other members of the company had assembled for the midday meal, which must be eaten in haste before the rehearsal.
Mr. Jacobus was there, in the act of sitting down between two ladies at the head of a long table; but seeing Loveland he condescended to summon him with a gesture.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bill's Star
Val could have laughed aloud as he imagined the old self of a few weeks since – the young and popular officer-in-the-Guards self – obeying the beckoning finger of such a man. But he walked towards it like a lamb, and was introduced to Mrs. Jacobus (Miss Moon) and Miss de Lisle.
As Star of the company, Miss de Lisle ought of course to have come first, but Miss Moon, the heavy lead ("heavy" in more senses than one) was not a lady to submit to such distinctions.
She would probably have said that Lillie de Lisle was a star only because it suited the convenience of Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus to head the troupe, financed by their money, with a pretty enough little soubrette, likely to take the popular fancy.
Miss Moon's first sweeping glance at the newcomer was one of self-conscious, important condescension; but seeing that he was an extremely handsome, well dressed young man, with an air and an appearance widely different from the tenth-rate actors of her acquaintance, past and present, her face and manner changed. Instead of posing as the manager's wife, she set herself to vie with Lillie de Lisle in youthful charm, as she sent forth a radiant, long-lashed look to fascinate Mr. Perceval Gordon.
She was a big woman of forty-two or three, with the splendid ruin of what had been a fine figure, an erectness of head which partly concealed the existence of a double chin, a complexion spoiled by a love of rich food and constant use of powder, singularly wide-open dark eyes fringed with painted lashes, and a good deal of bright crimson hair edged with rusty brown at the roots.
Beside Miss Moon, Bill's "little gal" looked like a tiny fishing boat bobbing under the lee of a large schooner; but she was a pretty creature whose curly hair was naturally almost as golden as it glittered, grey-blue eyes which ought to have been mischievous and merry, but were anxious, a clear, rather freckled white skin, and the piquant nose and innocent smile of a child.
These ladies were not dressed as tidily as their best friends might have wished, but Loveland had grown used to Isidora, and did not pick flaws lightly. They were both very cordial to him, somewhat – it would have seemed – to Mr. Jacobus's contemptuous annoyance; and then, at Miss Moon's suggestion, Ed Binney introduced Mr. Gordon, across and down the length of the table, to all the other members of the company.
There were a few non-theatrical diners in the room, commercial travellers, apparently; but they were at the far end of the table, and were not addressed, though they were on nodding acquaintance with several of the actors and actresses.
The latter were two in number besides Miss de Lisle and Mrs. Jacobus. Miss Ruby St. Clare, whose mission was to act small parts, and play the piano, was of the startled fawn order of young female, evidently not long out of amateurhood; and Mrs. Winter, who had passed the age when it was necessary to preserve her maiden name for programmes. She was a reserved and suspicious-looking woman, who watched her husband with short, sidelong glances of anxiety either for his conduct or his health. As for him, he was a thin, dejected, grey little man who suffered apparently from a broken heart or a shattered digestion. His lips worked, and the lids of his eyes, which winked almost continually, were red-rimmed. He seemed acutely conscious of Mrs. Winter's constant scrutiny.
The remaining male members of the company were Mrs. Jacobus's two sons, Tom and Bob Eccles. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and like their mother, though one was fat, with the lazy smile of a Buddha, and the other, who through a cast in his eye just missed being handsome, inclined to be truculent.
Loveland had intended to take a chair next his room-mate, but Miss Moon made a place for him between herself and Buddha – smiling Bob. As everybody except Jack Jacobus and the Winters talked and joked continually, it was surprising how fast they ate. The corned beef and cabbage, the onions, and the tinned American corn which, with other eatables and uneatables, surrounded their plates in a wreath of little earthenware dishes, disappeared as if by conjuring, to be swiftly replaced by apple-pie and cheese that magically vanished from the face of the table in their turn. Nearly everyone drank large cupfuls of milky coffee with their dinner; and twenty minutes after beginning the meal, all had finished, with the exception of Loveland, who was not accustomed to giving his food such short shrift. He rose with the others, however, and a few moments later the company was straggling in a procession to the theatre.
But after all, it was not a theatre, and even courtesy gave it no more high sounding name than "hall." It stood at the end of Main Street, its brick front wall plastered with wonderful coloured posters representing the most sensational scenes in the Human Flower's repertoire. To reach the stage it was necessary to mount a long, mud-caked staircase, and to pass through the auditorium. As for dressing rooms, they did not exist, for it had been a second thought of some light-minded town council, to turn the hall into a place where theatrical representations might lawfully be produced: but a space on either side of the stage had been curtained off with sheets, shawls and squares of canvas, ingeniously coaxed to hold together. These screens reached unevenly from twenty-four to twelve inches of the floor, and at worst an actor in dressing himself could be seen no higher than the knees – unless, perhaps, a too bright light behind the partition might reveal his whole person en silhouette.
Loveland was anxious to talk with the Star about her old friend – if not love – Bill Willing; and he had hoped on starting to walk by her side; but Miss Moon, seeing his desire, had instantly frustrated it by calling him and beginning to talk of the part he was about to rehearse. As old "Dave Dreadnought," he was supposed to curse her with menaces, and he felt that it would not be difficult to do so realistically, even in the character of Loveland; but he contrived to listen politely, if coldly, to the story of her first marriage at the early age of fifteen. "I'm not quite sixteen years older than my eldest son, who is over twenty now," she said, and did not look pleased when the juvenile lead found no more tactful comment than an absent-minded "Is it possible?"
On the stage he received the short MS. part of Dave Dreadnought, which Mr. Jacobus had not after all been able to unearth before, and was allowed to glance it over while the scene of his "dying curse" was being set. He was too inexperienced to remember what in gay, amateur days he had learned of stage directions, and Jacobus was inclined to be sarcastic at his expense; but both Miss Moon and Miss de Lisle, as well as Ed Binney, befriended him, whispering hurriedly what "down centre," "up left," "take the stage," or "wait on the prompt side" meant; and thanks to their good nature he got on reasonably well. He was called upon also to rehearse the ball scene, where he "walked on" as a young man of fashion, and had the privilege of dancing with Miss Moon before dwindling, in the last act, to a mere Dead Hand. All the "business" had to be repeated again and again, until at last he was confident, and the stage manager almost hopeful.
It was five o'clock by the time Jacobus snapped irritably: "You'll have to do, anyhow"; but as afternoon tea was not a custom in the Human Flower Company, they missed little by absence from the hotel. Still, Loveland had found no chance for a private word with Lillie, who remained ignorant of his acquaintance with Bill Willing.
At six o'clock a meal, which called itself supper, was ready; and having bolted a cold edition of dinner, eked out with tinned peaches and cups of tea, actors and actresses marched forth in a body to begin the evening's work.
The curtain did not rise until half past seven, but this was Saturday night, and the town was eager for its entertainment. The young girls and their escorts liked nothing better than to see the "show men and women" walk past them up the hall, on the way to that thrilling region known as "behind the scenes," therefore at least a score of persons were seated in the dismal auditorium, munching apples or candy, and cracking peanuts, when the Human Flower and her company filed in.
A few little boys on the cheap benches at the back whistled, clapped their hands, stamped on the floor, and made "cat calls" as a greeting to the players, but those saluted took no notice, and skurried by like hunted things. Miss St. Clare hastened to her seat at the piano, near which an elderly quadroon had already begun to tune a fiddle, and melancholy Mr. Winter remained at the door to help the ticket seller, until it should be time for him to "make up" as the heroine's millionaire parent.
The gentlemen of the company (Loveland had already learned that they never spoke of each other as mere "men") dressed behind one partition, the ladies behind another, and the crowding could scarcely have been worse in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Nevertheless, everyone was more or less good natured. Costumes of a sort, and odds and ends of grease paints were offered to Loveland who, to his own surprise, was shaking and perspiring oddly with stage fright.
"What rot!" he roughly scolded himself. "As if an audience in a tenth-rate country village mattered! What do I care whether or not I know my part, or what they think of me?"
But the queer fact remained that he did care, and his heart thumped faster than it had thumped when he was roused one dark night to fight his first battle. As he saw what personable looking men his companions became after manipulating a few bits of grease-paint, putting on wigs and carefully-kept stage costumes, he began in spite of himself to take this queer theatrical engagement of his more seriously. He wanted to act well; he wanted to please Lillie de Lisle, and to satisfy Ed Binney, who was wishing him luck; he wanted to make a good impression on the pretty bright-eyed country girls who had stared at him with interest as he passed through the auditorium.
There were not nearly enough local stage hands employed in the theatre, and acting was not the only work the actors had to do. They helped place the scenery, and change the settings; they flew about like distracted demons, half dressed, with suspenders flying, turning a burglar's den into a millionaire's drawing-room; and between the bewildering alterations of scene, there was no rest for the sole of anyone's foot.
How they ever got themselves out of one costume into another in time, how they ever remembered which of their many doublings came first, which last, Loveland could not conceive; but, standing in the wings waiting for his own dreaded turn, he was filled with an increasing respect for the barn-stormers, male and female. They could act, too, most of them, which seemed to him the strangest part of all, for he had not expected to find the satellites of Bill's little Star twinkling with the light of talent. As for his own performance, he realised before it had begun that such histrionic efforts as had won him applause when an amateur in London would not be good enough to gain him admiration as a professional in Modunk. It was another thing when, as a handsome young soldier, Lord Loveland had swaggered easily about the stage, pleased with himself and pleasing everyone else, because everyone had come with the intention of being pleased.
Here, in remote little Modunk, the audience was evidently far more critical, and if it didn't like what it saw, it said so audibly with a voice from the cheap seats, or at least indulged in a prolonged fit of bored coughing. If Loveland could have gone on "as himself," as Jacobus had said, he might have captured the fancy of the girls; but as old Dave Dreadnought in a wild wig, and moth-eaten beard lent by "Pa" Winter, the new addition to the company could conquer the audience only by sheer force of acting.
Fortunately for Loveland, he was not obliged to walk onto the stage in answer to a cue, or it seemed to him that he could not have moved. It was bad enough to be "discovered," in the act of being murdered; and as the moment came when he would have to make his first speech, his blood was beating like a drum in his temples. His throat felt dry, and when his cue to speak was given by Jacobus with meaning emphasis, he could only swallow, and glare. Not a word of the carefully rehearsed part could he remember, and involuntarily looking out in front (a thing Ed Binney had warned him not to do) it seemed as if the rows of faces down below the yellow footlights were leaping up at him like a wave.
If he had seen the mocking grins or heard the titters which his morbid fears and exaggerated sensitiveness led him to expect, he would have collapsed into gasping helplessness, and died without giving the famous curse on which the rest of the play depended. But to his intense, almost agonising relief, the eyes staring up at him were eager, excited. The people were taking him in earnest! They were not laughing at him. He had power over them; and suddenly he felt able to make use of it.
Just as Jacobus bent over him, frantically glaring, ready to prompt and swear at the same time, Loveland's frozen hesitation melted into words and gestures, the right words, the right gestures. Jacobus sighed a great sigh of thanksgiving, and Val delivered his curse with a transport of zeal. He was half frightened at his own explosiveness, but the audience enjoyed it, and when the curtain went down upon his death there was a round of applause from the audience.
"They liked it all right," said Miss Moon.
"Are they doing that for me?" Loveland asked, incredulously.
"Why, of course," she replied. "You were the star of the scene."
"It would have to be a mighty rotten Dave not to get a few hands on his curse," said Jacobus. "Never saw one yet bad enough for that. It's the scene, not the actor, they clap."
But even this cold douche did not depress Loveland. Though dead as Dave, it was his business to rise again in the third act as a young man of fashion – a youthful butterfly from an ancient chrysalis – and drunk with the sweet draught of triumph, he made the change gaily, as happy for the moment as if he were playing before an audience of kings and queens.
He had dressed, and was lurking in the wings again, watching with some interest the arrest of the leading man for his (Loveland's) murder, on false evidence snakily given by Ed Binney, when Miss de Lisle flitted noiselessly up, very insufficiently disguised as a boy.
"I suppose you do remember that you're a young English Lord?" she whispered, anxiously.
Loveland started, and stared. Had she found him out?
"In your next scene," she explained.
"Oh," said Loveland, relieved. "Am I – er – a lord?"
"Yes. Didn't Jacobus tell you? But perhaps he thought it didn't matter."
"It doesn't seem to," retorted Val, smiling faintly at his own hidden meaning.
"You're supposed to be the son of the Duke of Highgate. Pa Winter's the Duke, you know. Of course, though, you haven't seen the whole play yet – only your own scenes, so you can't keep track of everything. You only have to walk on; or rather waltz on with Miss Moon, you know; and when she goes off, and I come on in girl's clothes again, you must say, "The next is mine, I believe," with an English drawl. But the part's down on the program as 'Lord William Vane.'"
"By Jove, I know Willy Vane. He's in the Black Wa – " began Loveland, but he bit his lip and broke off abruptly.
The Human Flower laughed. "I don't suppose your friend's a lord, though!"
Loveland did not reply, as the choice lay between a fib and an affirmative.
"You ought to know how lords behave, more than any of us," went on the girl, "as you're an Englishman. I suppose you've seen some?"
"Yes, a few," said Val cautiously.
"Did you ever get a chance to speak to one?"
"Now and then."
"Were they very haughty?"
"Not all of them."
"Well, as you've seen them you'll know just how to act, and you look real swell. This is an exciting play, ain't it? And my! how it does makes us all work. This is my only quiet time, and I guess you're tired. Perhaps you'd rather watch Jack Jacobus's big scene than talk to me? I have to go on, anyhow, in about four minutes."
"I'd rather talk to you than watch, if you'll let me," said Val.
"Well, as long as you don't make yourself too interesting, so I miss my cue! J. J. will be cross if he sees us whispering here, but he's too taken up with himself and his wife in this scene to notice much."
"That's lucky, because I have a message for you from an old friend of yours, that I've been wanting to tell you all day," Loveland began hastily, not to waste one of the four minutes. "I wonder if you remember him? Bill Willing?"
"Bill Willing! – a friend of yours?" the girl spoke sharply, in her surprise.
"Then you haven't forgotten him."
"Forgotten him? I never will, to my dying day."
Her voice quivered a little, for, like most actresses of her type, her emotions were as easily played upon as harp-strings.
"Those are almost the words he used about you," said Loveland, interested in Lillie's part of the broken love melody, as he had been in Bill's. "Only – his were stronger."
"What were they – exactly?"
"Shall I tell you, really?"
"Yes, quick – quick."
"He said he always had loved you, and always would love you till his dying day."
"Oh!" Lillie de Lisle gulped down a small sob. "I thought he'd forgotten all about me – long, long ago. He never wrote."