women--well, admit that they’re human, not goddesses, anyhow, without
getting a reaction. My wife’s a lawyer. She helped a young fellow--an
ex-soldier--out of some trouble the other day and he told her she was
almost as nice as a foreigner--Ten years ago if Cora Boyle had wanted
to have a fight with Mr. Walling she could have taken the line that he
was jealous of Rand and she’d have found newspapers that would print
front page columns about it. She’d get about two paragraphs now.--But
she probably has better sense. Beastly handsome, isn’t she?”
“Very--brutta bestia bella. Gurdy tells me she’s paid a thousand
dollars a day to play Camille for the cinema. Why?”
“Oh ... she’s the kind of thing a lot of respectable middle aged women
adore, I think.--Look at them.”
There were many women in the rim of tables. They stared at the flaring
green and black gown, at the exhibited bawdry of gold wrought calves,
at the feathers of the waving, profuse fan. There was an attitude of
furtive adventure in the turn of heads. They stared, disapproved,
perhaps envied.
“‘Some men in this, some that, their pleasure take, but every woman is
at heart a rake,’” Olive quoted.
The director laughed, “You’re right.--And I often think that the movie
queens take the place of an aristocracy in this country. Something
very fast and bold for the women to stare at. Now Rand, there, is the
ideal aristocrat--in appearance, anyhow, don’t you think? And nobody’s
looking at him. I wonder if Miss Walling would dance with me?”
He relieved Gurdy close to the Rand table. When the boy joined Olive
she asked, “Mr. Russell isn’t a typical stage director, is he?... I
thought not. One of the new school in your theatre? A well educated
man?... Rather entertaining.”
“He writes a little. Been an engineer. Stage directors are weird. One
of them used to be an Egyptologist.--I say, help me keep Mark here the
rest of the week, will you? He’s dead tired. Did he run when he saw
Cora Boyle coming?”
“Yes. He seems positively afraid of her!”
Gurdy said, “He is afraid of her. Great Scott, he was only sixteen when
he married her and dad says he was--pretty blooming innocent. Mark’s
all full of moral conventions, Lady Ilden. Ever noticed that?”
“When you were in pinafores, my child! I always thought he’d shed some
of his Puritan fancies. He doesn’t.”
“Grandfather’s awfully strict, even if he is an atheist. And mother
... isn’t what you’d call reckless. They brought him up. And he still
thinks their ... well, moral standards are just about right.--I’m the
same way. Got it pounded into me at school that bad grammar and loud
clothes were immoral. Don’t suppose I’ll get over that.--Mark says he’s
never flirted with a married woman in his life.”
Olive yawned, “I don’t suppose that he has, consciously. Oh, to be
sure, I can understand why Mark would think of Miss Boyle as the
Scarlet Woman. The Puritan upbringing.--We never quite get over early
influences, Gurdy. I always find myself bristling a bit over dropped
H’s even when a famous novelist does the dropping.--Mark prophesies bad
reviews for the play, in the morning. Do leave word to have the papers
sent up to me. I’m so sleepy I shall forget about it.--Thank heaven,
Margot’s stopped dancing.”
In their double bedroom at the New Willard Margot talked jauntily of
“Todgers Intrudes,” until Olive fell asleep wondering why the girl
should interpret amiable laughter as the shout of success. In the
morning two newspapers arrived with breakfast. The critics praised
the acting and both sniffed at the play. Olive read the columns over
her tea. Both critics dealt kindly with Rand. One thought his manner
resembled that of Cyril Maude, the other said that he imitated George
Arliss. Margot came trailing a green robe from the bathtub and stood
pressed against the brass bedfoot reading the comments. The sun
redoubled on her silver girdle and the numerous polychrome tassels of
the foolish, charming drapery inside which her body stirred before
she cried, “How American! Thin! It’s no thinner than that rot dad has
running at the Forty Fifth Street!”
“My darling Margot, that’s thin American comedy. It’s something
national, comprehensible. As for ‘Todgers,’ why--why should you expect
a pack of American war office clerks and provincials to care whether
a Baron precedes an Earl or no? I can’t help being surprised that
so many of them seemed to know what it was all about! The play is
thin--horribly thin. I’m sure it did well at home on account of Maurice
Ealy’s following. The critics say rather nice things about Rand, all
things considered.... Well, were you impressed with him last night? Do
you still think he’s a fine actor?”
Margot tilted her face toward the ceiling and the sun made a visard
across her narrowed eyes. She twisted the silver girdle between her
hands and stood silent. Olive felt the final barrier between creatures,
suddenly and keenly. She had lived in intimacy with the girl for five
years. Here was a strange mind revolving under the black, carven hair
and the mask of sun.
“No, I didn’t think him very good, last night. Nervous.--And perhaps
the play did seem rather thin.... But it’ll do better in New York. More
civilized people, there.”
Olive lifted her breakfast tray to the bedside table and thought. Then
her patience snapped, before the girl’s sunny and motionless certitude.
She said, “New York! Do you think Mark will risk bringing this poor
ghost of a thing to New York? Hardly! He told me last night it will be
played in Philadelphia and Baltimore, then he’ll discard it.--You’re
silly, dearest! The play’s wretched and Rand’s no better than a hundred
other young leading men I’ve seen. He appeals to you for some reason or
other. He seems very, very feeble to me. He has no virility, no--”
The silver girdle broke between the tawny hands. Margot’s face rippled.
She said loudly, “This is all Gurdy! He doesn’t like the play! He’s
made dad dislike it. He--”
Olive cut in, “I shan’t listen to that! That’s mere ill temper and
untrue. The play is a waste of Mark’s time and of his money.--Between
your very exaggerated loyalty to Ronny Dufford and your liking for
this doll of an actor you’ve probably cost Mark three or four thousand
pounds. He produced this play entirely to please you. Don’t tease him
any farther. Don’t try to make him bring this nonsense to New York.
You’ve a dreadful power over Mark. Don’t trade on it! You’re behaving
like a spoiled child. You disappoint me!”
The black eyes widened. Margot pushed herself back from the bed with
both hands, staring. She said, “I--I dare say.... Sorry.”
“You should be!... He’s done everything he can to keep you amused. He
isn’t a millionaire. You’ve been treated like a mistress of extravagant
tastes, not like a daughter! There is such a thing as gratitude. He’s
humoured you in regard to this silly play and in regard to Rand. Gurdy
and Mr. Russell tell me that Cora Boyle can make herself a disgusting
nuisance now that the play’s a failure. You’ve pushed Mark into this
very bad bargain. Don’t make it worse by whimpering, now, and don’t--”
“Oh, please!”
“Then please bite on the bullet and let’s hear no more of this. When
Mark tells you he’ll drop the play, don’t tease him.”
Margot said, “Poor Ronny Dufford! I thought--”
“I’m sorry Ronny’s broke. It’s the destiny of younger sons whose
fathers had a taste for baccarat. I shall start for Japan as soon as
I’ve seen the Walling opened. I shan’t go in a very easy frame of mind
if I feel that you’ve constituted yourself a charitable committee of
one with Mark as treasurer.”
Olive laughed. Margot said, “Yes, m’lady,” and made a curtsey, then
fluttered off to telephone for breakfast, began to chuckle and the
delicate chime of that mirth was soothing, after the rasp of Olive’s
tirade. The girl seemed unresentful. Olive had never so seriously
scolded her. Now she thought that she should talk to Mark about
his folly. This idolatry was delightful to watch but unhealthy, a
temptation to Margot. The girl had other pets in London. There was
an amateur actress constantly wobbling on the edge of professional
engagements. Two or three of the young painters experimented in stage
setting. She deliberated and listed these artists to Mark while they
were driving about the broad city in a hired victoria.
“All nice children and hopeless dabblers, old man. Beware of them or
you’ll have the house filled with immigrants. Rand’s a giant beside any
of them.”
“The little man ain’t so bad. Guess I’ll put him in as leading man for
a woman in a Scotch play I’m going to work on after Christmas. That’ll
shut Cora Boyle up. He’ll do, all right. I’ll offer him the part when I
tell him ‘Todgers’ goes to Cain’s.”
“To--where?”
“It’s a warehouse in New York where dead plays go--the scenery,
I mean.” Mark pointed to a full wreath of steam floating above
the Pan American building, “Watch it go. No wind. Ought to last a
minute.--Busted,” he sighed, as the lovely cream melted. “But I ain’t
sorry this happened, Olive. Teach her she don’t know so much about the
show business. ‘Todgers’ll’ make a little money here because the town’s
packed full. But I’m afraid Philadelphia’ll be its Waterloo. Well,
the Boston _Transcript_ had three columns on ‘Captain Salvador.’ It’s
in the biggest theatre in Boston and they had standing room only last
night. Gurdy got a wire from a kid he knows in Harvard that a couple of
professors came out of the woods and told their classes to go see the
thing.”
His talk came turning back to “Captain Salvador” for the rest of the
week. He was bodily listless after the strain of the Boston production.
Gurdy forced him to play golf and tramp the spread city when Olive and
Margot were at teas in the British colony. Russell often walked and
every night dined with them, examining Margot with his sharp hazel eyes
so that Gurdy fancied the man exhaling her essence with his cigarette
smoke. He sat with Gurdy on Monday afternoon in the smoking car on the
road to Philadelphia and observed, “Miss Walling’s very much interested
in ‘Todgers.’ How will she take the blow when it fails, here? It’ll be
a flat failure, tonight, Gurdy. See if it isn’t.”
“Margot and I are going to a dance. We shan’t see it flop.”
“It’ll flop very flat and hard. I’m a Philadelphian. You should warn
Miss Walling.”
Mark startled Gurdy by warning Margot during tea in the small suite of
the Philadelphia hotel while she stood at the tin voiced piano rattling
tunes with one hand. Mark said nervously, “Now, sister, if ‘Todgers’
is a fluke here--why, I can’t waste time and cash fooling with it any
longer.” He coughed and finished, “I’ll send your friend Dufford a
check and--amen.”
“You’re an old duck,” said Margot, “and I’ll be good. Shan’t ever try
to choose another play for you--never, never, never.” She tinkled the
negro song from “Captain Salvador” tapping one foot so that the silver
buckle sparkled. “Wish I could sing.... Life is like a--what’s good old
life like, Gurdy?”
“Like a mountain railway.”
“That a simile or a metaphor?--I say, I must get scrubbed. Six o’clock.”
She passed Gurdy, leaving the room. He saw her teeth white against the
red translucency of her lower lip and carmine streaks rising in her
face, but her door shut slowly.
“Took it like a Trojan,” Mark proudly said, “Guess the Washington
papers opened her eyes some. Well, let’s go see if Russell’s
downstairs, Gurd. He’s got a room on this floor. Gad, Olive, I wish we
were goin’ to a dance tonight instead of this--junk.”
“Margot should wear something very smart for this dance, shouldn’t
she?” Olive asked. “The Jannans are the mighty of earth, aren’t they?”
“Old family. Steel mills,” Gurdy explained.
“I’ve met some of them in Scotland. Wasn’t there a Miss Jannan who
did something extraordinary? I remember a row in the New York papers.
Didn’t she--”
Mark laughed, “Ran off with a married man. They’ve got a couple of
kids, too.”
“Doesn’t that domestic touch redeem the performance, Mark?”
Mark chuckled and drawled, “Now, here! You make out you’re a wild eyed
radical and so on. Suppose some girl that ought to know better came and
lived next you in Chelsea with a married man. Ask her to dinner?”
“I cheerfully would if I thought her worth knowing, gentle Puritan!
If I thought she was simply a sloppy, uncontrolled sentimentalist I
should no more bother myself than I would to meet a society preacher or
some hero of the Russian ballet who’s paid a hundred guineas a night
to exhibit his abdominal surface in the name of art.... Six o’clock. I
should tub, myself. I’ve several cinders on my spine. Run along, both
of you.”
Mark said on the way to the elevators, “Olive’s a wonder, ain’t she,
bud? Don’t know why but she always puts me in mind of your dad. Calm
and cool.--Oh, say, tomorrow’s your mamma’s birthday!”
“It is. And I’m going up to the farm, after lunch. ‘Todgers Intrudes’
has got me--”
“Shut up,” said Mark, seeing Cosmo Rand ringing the button for the
elevator. He beamed at the actor and asked in the car, “Mrs. Rand went
back to New York?”
“Yes. Just been talking to her by ’phone. They started the film of
‘Camille’ today. Very trying, she said. They’ve some promoted cowboy
playing Armand.--I say, I’ve some quite decent gin in my flask. We
might have a cocktail.”
Gurdy thought how clever the man was to wear grey, increasing his
height and embellishing his rosy skin. He understood dress expertly. At
the Jannan dance, toward midnight, a girl told him that she’d just come
from a “simply idiotic play” but praised Rand’s appearance. “Englishmen
do turn themselves out so well.”
The dance was supported by sparkling Moselle and Gurdy didn’t have
to perform with Margot. She found friends. He was summoned to be
introduced to a young Mrs. Calder who at once invited him to dine
the next evening. Gurdy excused himself on the score of his mother’s
birthday. As they drove away from the emptying house Margot explained,
“Peggy Calder’s nice. She was in the Red Cross in London. You’re really
going up to the farm?”
“Certainly.”
She said nothing, restless in her dark cloak for a time then chattered
about the Jannan grandeur. She enjoyed spectacles. The great suburban
house and the green ballroom pleased her. “But you people drink too
much, you know? Mrs. Jannan’s a second wife, isn’t she? Rather pretty.
Heavens, what a long way back to the hotel!”
“You’re tired.”
“Frightfully. And blue.... Can’t you make dad try ‘Todgers’ in New
York, Gurdy?” Directly and with a sharp motion she added, “No. That’s
utterly silly. I’ve no business asking it.... But I do feel--And yet I
don’t know the New York taste--You really think it wouldn’t do?”
“I really don’t, Margot. And you can’t get a theatre for love, blood or
money. They’re even trying to buy theatres to bring plays into. Mark
would have to run the play on the road for weeks--months, perhaps,
before he could get a theatre.”
She dropped the matter, spoke of the dance again and at the hotel
hurried up the corridor to her rooms. Mark sat up as Gurdy slid into
the other bed of his chamber and passed a hand across his throat, “Oh,
son, what an evening! ‘Todgers’ to the boneyard! Crape on the door!”
“Fizzled? People were knocking it at the Jannan’s.”
“Awful! Every one coughed. I will say Rand worked hard. No, it’s dead.
I’ll let it run tomorrow night and then close it.--Stick with me
tomorrow. I’ll have to break the bad news to Rand.”
He broke the news to Rand just as Gurdy was leaving to take the train
for Trenton, after lunch. The actor strolled up to them beside the
door, a grey furred coat over his arm and his bronze eyes patently
anxious.
“Going away, Bernamer?”
“The country.”
“Decent day for it.... I say, Walling, they weren’t nice to us in the
papers.”
Gurdy saw Mark begin to act. The voice deepened to its kindest drawl.
Mark said, “Just called up the theatre. Only sold two hundred seats for
tonight and its almost three, now. That’s too bad.”
Rand passed the polished nails along the soft moustache. The sun of the
door sent true gold into his hair. He murmured, “Shocking bad, eh? We
play Baltimore, next week, don’t we?”
“No,” said Mark, easily, “It’s too thin. I’ll close it tonight.--Now,
I’m putting on a piece called the ‘Last Warrior.’ English. Start
rehearsals after Christmas. Good part for you in that. Marion Hart’s
the lead. Know her? Nice to play with and a damned good play.”
“Oh--thanks awfully.--Yes, I know Miss Hart.--Thanks very much, sir....
You shan’t risk bringing ‘Todgers’ to New York?”
“No. I’m sorry. You’ve worked mighty hard and I like your work. You’ll
be a lot better off in this other play.... ‘Todgers’ is too thin, Rand.
Might have done five or six years back.”
The actor nodded. “Dare say you’re right, sir. Bit of a bubble, really.
And awfully good of you to want me for this other thing. Be delighted
to try.... Yes, this was rather bubblish:--Anyhow, this lets me out of
Baltimore. I do hate that town. Well, thanks ever so. Better luck next
time, let’s hope.”
He walked off, grey into the duller grey of the columned lounge. Mark
nodded after him. “Took it damned well, Gurdy. He’ll be all right in
this other show and Cora can’t say I haven’t been decent to him. Well,
hustle along. Got that whiskey for your dad? Give ’em my love.--Look at
that pink car, for lordsake! Vulgarity on four wheels, huh?--So long,
sonny.”
Gurdy was glad that Rand hadn’t whined. This was a feeble, tame fellow
without much attraction beyond his handsome face. Perhaps it was for
this mannerly tameness that Margot liked him. Perhaps that fable of
women liking the masterly male was faulty. Margot liked to domineer.
She had bullied Rand a trifle at the rehearsal in London. Perhaps
Cora Boyle liked the tame little creature for some such reason. Gurdy
dismissed him and the theatre. There was vexing sadness in the
collapse of even so poor a play. Russell and the actors had worked.
It came to nothing. Bubble! Expensive, futile, unheroic evanescence.
Margot’s fault. He mustn’t let Mark do such a thing again. The girl
must confine her restless self to dances and clothes. She had looked
very well at the Jannan party. She had smartness, instant magnetism.
She was still asleep and would dine with her acquaintance, Mrs. Calder,
tonight. Gurdy yawned as Trenton foully spouted its industry toward
the sky. Bernamer was waiting with the car at the station, gave him a
crushing hug and told him that he looked like hell.
“Danced all night.”
“I see you did in the _Ledger_. Among those present at the Apsley
Jannan’s party. Your mamma’s all upset about it. Saw a movie of
a millionaire party with naked hussies ridin’ ostriches in the
conserv’tory. She thinks Margot’s led you astray. How’s this ‘Tod’ play
done?”
“It’s all done, dad. Closes tonight.”
Bernamer sent the car through Trenton and cursed Margot astoundingly.
“Ten or twelve thousand dollars! The little skunk! Cure Mark of
listening to her. Say, he still wanting you to marry her, bud?”
“Afraid he is, dad.”
“Sure. Next best he could do to marryin’ her himself. Funny boy. Likes
her ’cause she’s pretty. Black hair.--This English woman’s blackheaded,
ain’t she?... Well, you sic’ some feller onto Margot and get her off
Mark’s hands. If you fell in love with her again, your mamma’d puff up
and bust.”
“Again?”
Bernamer gave him a blue stare and winked, wrinkling his nose. His
weathered face creased into a snort. “Sure, you were losin’ sleep over
her ’fore she got back from England.”
“Not now, daddy.” Gurdy wondered about the absolute death of his
passion. His father, who so seldom saw him, knew it was done. Mark saw
him daily, talked to him of Margot urgently and saw nothing.
“Well,” said Bernamer, “Mark’s awful fond of you. And you ain’t bad,
reelly. Don’t you get married until you catch one you can stand for
steady diet. Oh, your mamma’s gone on a vegetable diet and lost four
pounds in two weeks. Ed’s got a boil on his neck--bad, too, poor pup.
Jim done an algebra problem right yesterday and made a touchdown
Saturday. He’s got his head swelled a mile.”
The man’s tolerant dealing with his family impressed Gurdy. Here was a
controlled and level affection, not Mark’s worship. It was a healthier
thing. He watched his father’s amiable scorn while Mrs. Bernamer and
the whole household fussed variously over young Edward’s inflamed
neck after supper. The boil was central in the talk of the red living
room. Grandfather Walling tried to think of some ancient remedy and
fell asleep pondering. The two bigger lads hovered and chuckled over
the eruption. The sisters neglected some swains who came calling. Mrs.
Bernamer sat mending the grey breeches of the military uniform Edward
wasn’t wearing. The boil maintained itself over gossip of the village,
the Military Academy and female questions about the Jannan dance. At
ten Bernamer said, “Go to bed, all of you. Got to talk business to
Gurdy.” The family kissed Gurdy and departed. Grandfather Walling’s
snore roamed tenderly down into the stillness. Bernamer got out the
chessboard and uncorked a bottle of vicious pear cider. They smoked and
played the endless game. At twelve the telephone bell shore off his
father’s sentences. Gurdy clapped a palm on the jangling at his elbow
and picked up the instrument. Olive Ilden spoke in her most artificial,
clearest voice.
“We’re in New York, dear. The doctor telephoned about eight and we came
up directly. I think you’d best come, Gurdy.”
“Mr. Carlson?”
“Yes. He’ll be gone in a few hours. Mark’s so distressed and--the old
man asked for you.”
Bernamer said, “No train until three thirty, son.”
“I’ll get there as fast, as I can,” Gurdy told her, “Margot there?”
“No. She’d gone to dine with her friend--Mrs. Calder--and Mark didn’t
want her here. I’ll tell Mark you’re coming, then. Good-bye.”
Gurdy rang off. His father nodded, “Mark’ll miss the old feller. Been
mighty good to him. Funny old man. Always liked him. Poor Mark! Well,
you say this Englishwoman’s sensible. That’s some help.”
Gurdy was glad of Olive’s sanity, wished that the thought of this death
didn’t make his heart thump for a little. His father would drive him
into Trenton at two. They played chess again. Bernamer made sandwiches
of beef and thick bread. The red walls clouded with cigarette smoke. It
was two when the bell again rang.
“Dead, prob’ly,” said Bernamer.
The operator asked for Gurdy. There was a shrill wrangling of women
behind which a man spoke loudly and savagely. His impatience cracked
through the buzzing. It wasn’t Mark when the man spoke clearly at last.
“This is Russell, Gurdy. Can you hear? You must come here at once.”
“To Philadelphia? What’s happened? Mr. Carlson’s dying and--”
“I know. And I can’t bother Walling. You must come here as fast as you
can. Can you speak German?... I’ll try to talk French; then.”
After a moment Gurdy said, “All right. I’ll come as fast as I can. Get
hold of the hotel manager. Money--”
“The detective’s got a check. That’s all right. Hurry up, though.”
Gurdy found himself standing and dropped the telephone. It brushed the
chessmen in a clattering volley to the floor. His father’s blue eyes
bit through the smoke.
“When’s a train to Philadelphia, dad?”
“That damn fool girl gone and got herself into--”
“This actor!... Of course she has! Of course! Oh, hell! In her room!
When’s there a train to Philadelphia?”
X
The Idolater
Olive left the telephone table and strolled across the bright library
to the fire. The sussuration of dragged silk behind her moving gown
gave her a queer discomfort; there had been no time to change in the
rush; it seemed improper to attend a death-bed in evening dress. And
she was intrusive, here, and helpless. Mark’s pain was calm. He would
suffer later, at the end of these hours or minutes. The bored, plump
doctor came into the library, closed the door and lit a cigarette,
joining Olive at the warm hearth.
“He was asking for Miss Walling, just now.”
“Ah? She’s in Philadelphia. She was dining with some friends at the
Ritz, there, so we left her.”
The doctor said, “Very sensible,” and blew a smoke ring. Under its
dissolution his eyes admired Olive’s shoulders then, the pastel of
Gurdy in a black frame on the mantel.
“Tell me,” Olive asked, “how--how far is he conscious?”