I
In her petticoat, barefooted, because the morning was sultry, Miss Maggy
Delamere plied a well-worn hare's foot to her cheeks with the sure touch
of an artist. Professionally speaking and adding a final "e" to the
term, that is what she was--chorus-lady by courtesy, showgirl in the
vernacular of the stage. On her small dressing-table were ranged a
number of pots and bottles, unguents and creams. A battered make-up box
containing remnants and ends of variously colored grease sticks flanked
a looking-glass of inadequate size and small reflective power. A beam
of sunlight striking across a corner of the table danced with minute
particles of dust from a powder-puff.
The astonishing amount of vigor she put into the process of facial
adornment, the prodigality with which she used pigments and washes, were
characteristic of her temperament, all generosity and recklessness.
Paint and powder were a habit with her, not an exigency. No girl of
nineteen could have needed them less. Her complexion, well-nigh
flawless, bloomed beneath the unnecessary veneer. Not even a cracked
mirror could mitigate her good looks nor detract anything from her
vivacious expression. It reflected a speaking face even when the lips
were still.
She was taking unusual pains with her appearance this morning. A card
stuck in the edge of the looking-glass provided the reason.
_Memo. from A. Stannard, Dramatic Agent._
PALL MALL THEATRE.
_Voice Trial, June 22nd, 10.45 a. m._
As everybody knows, the Pall Mall is the one London Theater of all
others to which ladies of the chorus most aspire. In Maggy's case that
aspiration was intensified by real want of an engagement. She had
recently succumbed to an attack of that childish complaint, measles, and
was more than usually hard-up. Her choice of garments was as limited as
her means, yet twice she changed her mind about one or another of them
before she was satisfied that she looked her best. Her efforts to that
end finished with the tacking of several sheets of tissue paper to the
inside of her skirt to give it the rustle of a silk lining. The
rustle--deceptive and effective as stage thunder--convincingly
accomplished, she felt ready to present herself before any stage-manager
in existence.
If her mood was serene vanity had no part in it. Unlike the average
chorus-girl she was quite free from conceit of any kind. She was too
good-looking to be unaware of it, but she did not trade on her
appearance further than professional principles strictly allowed. She
asked no more of it than that it should bring her in from thirty
shillings to two pounds a week for honest work behind the footlights.
Commercialism with her ended there. She was all heart, but free from
illusions. Her mother had been on the stage before her. Always on the
stage herself since childhood, familiarized with its careless,
hand-to-mouth existence, its trials and its exuberances, she had become
worldly-wise at ten and a woman at fifteen. But the life did not
demoralize her. The bad example of a mother's frailty and intemperance
had been her safeguard. She had never lost her head or her heart. She
did not rate herself very high, but she rated men lower. Apart from
this she had no hidebound views about life or morality. Since her
mother's unlovely death she had lived alone and kept her end up somehow.
She had often been penniless, gone hungry and cold; but so did many of
the people among whom she moved. So long as she was not quite penniless
she never worried. Cigale-like she lived in the present. If she ever
suffered from fits of depression it was when she realized that she was
more than usually shabby and needy, a condition, however, which she
preferred to put up with rather than descend to the acquisitive methods
of other girls.
Through the rattle of the traffic in the street below she heard a church
clock booming. Incidentally, she regarded churches less as places of
worship than timepieces of magnitude, convenient when you do not possess
a watch. She counted the strokes, ten of them, darted to the glass for
a last survey of herself, gave a touch to her hat, another to her
waistbelt, and pattered in her now stockinged feet to the top of the
stairs.
"Shoes, please, Mrs. Bell!" she sang out. "You don't want me to be late,
do you?"
"Coming this moment, Miss Delamere!" shouted an answering voice.
Mrs. Bell lumbered up the stairs with the shoes in her hand--high-heeled
ones of the sort that only last a fortnight before losing shape.
"I just stopped to give them an extry polish," she panted.
Maggy took them from her and hurriedly put them on. While she buttoned
them her landlady went on her knees and gave them a final rub up with
her apron. She meant well.
"You'll have luck to-day," she said, regaining her feet and surveying
her lodger with approval. "I should look out for the butcher's black cat
on my way, if I was you. Back to dinner, dear?"
"I'll have a cut off whatever you've got, if I am," Maggy answered.
"Mine's hot Canterbury lamb and onion sauce."
"All right."
Maggy ran downstairs, slammed the hall door behind her and walked down
the street into the main thoroughfare, looking for the green motor-bus
that would take her within a stone's throw of the Pall Mall Theater. In
a quarter of an hour she had reached that imposing edifice. Going in at
the stage door she descended a flight of stone steps, traversed a long
passage, and found herself upon the stage.
Gray daylight filtered down from the skylight above the flies, just
enough for the business of the moment, no more. Across the unlit
footlights was a gloomy void, pierced by an occasional gleam from an
open door at the back of the pit or dress-circle, and relieved by the
lighter hue of serried rows of dust-sheets hanging over the seats and
balcony edges.
Close to the footlights was a table occupied by the stage-manager and
one of his satellites. In the corner to their left an upright piano was
set askew with the conductor of the orchestra seated at it. At the back
of the stage, standing about in groups, some thirty girls and a few men
were waiting to have their voices tried.
They chattered noisily. Most of them seemed to know one another. One
or two called out a greeting to Maggy. Some were volubly discussing
their professional experiences, telling of late engagements and
prospective ones; the run of this piece, the closing down of that;
incidents on tour and in pantomime; suppers at restaurants and the
demerits of landladies. These topics ran into one another and
overlapped. Others, with giggles, imparted risky anecdotes in
undertones. Most of them appeared to be taking the situation with the
calmness of habit. Nervousness showed in a few faces; anxiety in one or
two. One pale-faced girl was in a condition of approaching maternity.
In other surroundings she would have attracted attention, perhaps called
up pathetic surprise that in the circumstances she should be attempting
to obtain employment. But here very few were affected by pathos at
sight of her, nor was she an object of much surprise.
After Maggy had exchanged a word or two with those whom she knew she
took very little notice of the people about her. She stood apart,
humming a tune, and every now and again her feet broke into a subdued
dance step. But this state of abstraction did not last long. That she
was a creature of impulse showed in an abrupt change from it to close
attention of what was going on around her. Her fine eyes went alertly
over those present and came to rest on a girl of about her own age whose
quiet manner and dress of severe black singled her out from the rest.
She was tall and slight, very much in the style of the women in
Shepperson's drawings. Her small features and graceful figure gave her
a distinguished appearance. She looked what she was, a lady, and a
stranger to her surroundings. She held a roll of music and glanced
nervously about her until she became aware of Maggy's smiling regard.
It seemed to encourage her. She returned the smile and advanced.
"At which end will they begin?" she asked nervously, making it clear
that she was an amateur.
"Anywhere," replied Maggy with friendly cheerfulness. "You're not a
pro.?"
"No."
"I thought not. I shouldn't let on if I were you. Managers fight shy
of beginners. First thing they'll ask you at the table is what
experience you've had. Haven't you been on the stage at all before?"
"No, I've never appeared in public. I'm new to it all."
"Been looking for a shop--an engagement--long?"
"For five weeks. Ever since I came to London."
The girl in black could not hide the note of disappointment that came
into her voice. Maggy gave her an encouraging tap on the arm.
"Five weeks!" she scoffed. "That's nothing. Lots of us are out for
months. You'll know that if you ever hit real bad luck."
"I can't wait months."
"Hard up?" Maggy asked with quick understanding.
"I shall be soon."
"Same here. Tell me, where are you living? You're different to the
crowd. I like you."
The girl in black hesitated and got a little red.
"I'm not living anywhere at present," she confessed. "I was in a
boarding-house until to-day. I had to leave. I shall have to find rooms
before night. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where to look?"
They had moved away from those nearest them. Each felt attracted to the
other without knowing why.
"Did they keep your box?"
"No. Why should they?"
"I thought you meant you couldn't pay."
"No, it wasn't that. But I can't go back. A man came into my room last
night--one of the men staying there. I rang the bell and called the
landlady. I don't understand why, but she blamed me and was very
offensive. I didn't go to bed again. I sat up, waiting for the
morning."
"The beast!"
The cheery look left Maggy's face, giving place to one of deep
resentment. "The man, I mean," she said, "though I've no doubt the
woman was just as bad. There are houses like that. Fancy you not
knowing it. I should have ... Here, they're going to begin. Keep by
me. I'll see you through."
The stage-manager rapped on the table.
"Silence, please! We'll commence now."
An immediate hush followed. The groups broke up, spreading across the
stage, facing the footlights. Such indifference to the occasion as many
of them had hitherto evinced was gone now. They were there to be
engaged. Even the most self-assured became serious, made so by the
competitive equation. Only twelve girls and three men were wanted to
complete the ranks of the chorus, and here were nearly forty applicants
for the vacancies.
"Come on, come on. Who's first? You with the boa," proceeded the
stage-manager. "What's your song?"
The girl indicated handed her music to the pianist. He rattled off the
prelude without the waste of a moment. The girl sang a few bars, and
was interrupted by: "That'll do. Next!"
Nothing more was said or asked. The girl took her sheet of music, and
effaced herself. With equal celerity the next dozen were disposed of.
Not more than one out of four was called to the table for her or his
name to be recorded. All the while the singing was going on the
stage-manager kept up a running fire of remarks at the expense of the
singer. Generally they were merely sarcastic; some were rude.
The girl in black kept close to Maggy who looked on unperturbed, now and
then jerking out a subdued comment on the proceedings, partly to
herself, partly for the information of her companion.
"Now it's Dickson, poor kid! Look at the state she's in. Silly of her
to come. Powell won't let her open her mouth.... There you are! Off
she goes. She's crying. The brute! He needn't have _said_ it! ...
That's Mortimer. She'll get taken on.... Knew it at once. Down goes her
name--address 'Makehaste Mansions!' Don't they get through us quick?
We're not human beings, only voices and figures. My turn!"
She walked confidently down to the table, ignoring the piano.
"Where's your song?" inquired the stage-manager.
"Won't you take my voice on trust, Mr. Powell?" was her jaunty reply.
"It's like a bird's."
"Nightingale, I suppose?" he jeered.
"No, bird of Paradise. Aren't I good enough to look at?"
After a momentary hesitation, during which he appraised her face and
figure, he said:
"Got a photo of yourself in fleshings?"
"Not here. Plenty at my agent's--Stannard's."
"All right. Name, please. Next."
The girl in black was next. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast as she
moved down. Had she to pitch her voice to fill that gaping void across
the footlights? She shrank from singing to these blase-looking men who
gave the impression of damning before they heard. Then she saw that
Maggy was still standing by the table and nodding encouragingly to her.
It gave her heart. She handed her song to the pianist and commenced to
sing.
"Louder, please," said some one.
She sang louder and lost her nervousness. It was not so difficult to
fill that huge auditorium, after all. So far, she was the only one of
them that had been allowed to sing her song half through.
"Shouldn't mind hearing the rest of that another day," said the
stage-manager, stopping her at last. "Not half bad, my dear. Name,
please."
She gave her name, Alexandra Hersey.
"What have you been in?" came the query.
Before she could answer Maggy chimed in.
"She was with me on tour in 'The Camera Girl.' No. 2 Company."
"Address?"
Again Maggy came to the rescue.
"Put her down to mine. 109 Sidey Street. Then you'll remember us
both--p'r'aps!"
She hooked her arm in Alexandra's and made for the wings. When they
were in the passage facing the stage-door she said:
"I'll help you find rooms if you like. I've nothing to do. I say, you
can sing!"
"If it hadn't been for you--"
"Oh, rats!"
"But it was awfully good of you," Alexandra maintained. "Is there a
room in the house where you live?" she asked, actuated by a strong
desire not to lose sight of her new acquaintance.
"There's room in my room, that's all. I pay ten shillings a week. My
landlady charges fifteen for two in it. That would be seven-and-six
each. But"--she made a wry face--"you wouldn't like it. It's slummy.
There's a smell of fried fish and a beastly row half the night. Still,
you can have a look at it if you like."
There was invitation in the tone.
"I'd like to come," said Alexandra.
"Right-O. Here's my motor car. The green one." She held up her hand
to a 'bus driver. "My chauffeur doesn't like stopping, except for
policemen."
She gave Alexandra a push up and sprang on the footboard after her.
They climbed to the top, and were rattled and jerked in the direction of
the King's Cross Road.