asleep. The boy made the place dark and went up to his own room. In the
upper black of the hall some one caught his arm. Olive followed him and
shut the door. She had cast a black fur cloak over her night dress and
her grey hair was loose. She looked at the boy without a word, leaning
on the door.
“Blackmail. She sent her lawyer. She’s got a confession from Rand.
Mark’s signed an agreement. He’ll bring that play into New York and
she’ll live with Rand as soon as it opens.”
“Ah!... Oh, the cad!... Oh, Gurdy, take care of Mark!”
She walked down the hall. Gurdy followed her and heard her pity crash
into miserable sobs behind her door. He stood listening for a while
then raised his arm and pressed it against his mouth.
XI
The Walling
On Saturday afternoon, Olive and Margot started for Seattle. Gurdy
drove with them to the station and Margot spoke to him for the first
time since the journey from Philadelphia. She said, “What theatre will
dad bring ‘Todgers’ into?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be hard to find one.”
She murmured, “It ought to be a great success,” and Gurdy admired her
stubborn air. She sat stiffly in a suit of yellow cloth and walked
stiffly down the great stairs of the station, gathering eyes, moved
ahead of Olive and himself to the coach and stood in the vestibule,
motionless, uninterested when Olive drew Gurdy away to the edge of the
concrete and raised her veil.
“Mark need never see the child again unless--”
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Gurdy decided, “but it’s been an awful jolt.”
The Englishwoman put a hand to her mouth which shivered.
“Awful.... Oh, I don’t know, Gurdy!”
“Don’t know what, Lady Ilden?”
“I don’t know that he’s right in sacrificing himself.... I don’t know
that he’s wrong. Chivalry.... I can’t understand how two people can be
such beasts as this woman and her husband.... Deliberate torture....
Isn’t it revenge?”
Gurdy didn’t answer but asked, “You’ll go on from Japan to--”
“South Africa. I’ve some friends at Capetown.... She’s that brutal age,
when it doesn’t matter if we get what we want.... Oh, my dear boy, this
is hideous! It’s revenge!”
“I don’t think so,” he said, “I saw Russell at the office this morning.
‘Todgers’ doesn’t open in Baltimore until Monday. He says that Rand
talked to him in Philadelphia before this happened and wanted Russell
to persuade Mark to risk bringing the play to New York and that was
after Mark had told him he wouldn’t bring it in. Russell thinks
she--Cora Boyle--is simply crazy over Rand. Russell’s seen a good deal
of them. He says Rand talked to her by ’phone from Philadelphia on
Tuesday. She may have put him up to this. I don’t think it’s revenge.
She’s got nothing to revenge. Mark’s always been decent to her.”
Olive smiled and then whispered, “Do take care of Mark.” A porter came
bawling, “All aboard,” and groups broke up along the train. Margot
swung and vanished into the coach. Olive said, “She’s stunned. She
won’t realize she’s been a beast to Mark for a while.” Gurdy mumbled
something about points of view. The tired woman cut him short with,
“Rot, old man! She didn’t play fair. She lied. Do take care of Mark.
Good-bye.”
Gurdy walked away and a clerk from Mark’s office brushed by him with a
papered load of yellow roses. The boy turned and saw Olive take these
against her black furs. She stood graciously thanking the clerk for
a moment, smiling. Then she stepped into the vestibule and the train
stirred. Gurdy walked on. The colossal motion of the crowd in the
brilliant station was a relief and a band hammered out some military
march by a Red Cross booth. His spirit lifted; the strained waiting
of three days was done; Margot was gone; Gurdy wouldn’t have to watch
Mark’s piteous effort at normality. He found his uncle alone in the
office at the 45th Street Theatre, studying a model for a scene and
swiftly Mark asked, “I sent Jim with some--”
“He got there.”
Mark sighed and rubbed his hair. Everything confused him. He hoped
Olive would forgive him for not coming to the station. That had been
cowardly. He said, “Ought to have gone along, son.... Afraid I’d say
something I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have let you do it alone. This is
worse on you than it is on me. I--”
“Mark, on my honour, I’m not in love with Margot!”
He lied so nobly that Mark wondered at him and brought out a thin
chuckle. “You’re a card, son!... If I didn’t know better I’d almost
believe you.... Well, take a look at this set. That left wall looks
kind of dark to me. It’s ox blood and it might light up with spots on
it. What d’you think?”
Callers interfered. Gurdy went down the stairs into the lobby packed
with women who came out from the matinée. All these decorated bodies
flowed left and right about a dull blue placard announcing, “Early
in December The Walling Theatre will open with ‘Captain Salvador’ by
Stephen O’Mara,” and some women paused, drawing on gloves, fussing with
veils. A slim and black haired girl stared boldly at Gurdy, passing
him. She wasn’t like Margot but he hated her for an instant and then
stalked up Sixth Avenue where the lights of restaurants roused in the
dusk and the crowd of Saturday evening brayed. In ten cool blocks Gurdy
captured his philosophy, held it firmly; Mark was unreasonably hurt--in
fact, Mark was an old-fashioned, unphilosophic fellow who hadn’t
progressed, was still a country boy in essence, hadn’t even gained the
inferior cynicism of his trade and friends. He was letting himself be
bullied by Cora Boyle on an antique concept. Why should he let himself
be laughed at and lose money for this immaterial thing? Gurdy succeeded
in getting angry at Mark and tramped about the blue library preparing a
lecture, saw a glove of Margot’s on a table and tossed it into a waste
basket. He could imagine Mark shedding tears over that empty glove and
its presence in the copper basket fretted Gurdy. He plucked it forth
and flung it into the fire of cedar logs where it made a satisfactory
hiss, blackening. It must have been perfumed. A scent floated out of
the fire. Gurdy grinned over the symbol and poked the remnant which
crumbled and was nothing. He stood reducing Margot’s importance to
logical ash and so intently that he jumped when the butler told him
that Russell was downstairs. The director strolled in and looked about
the room before speaking.
“Nice walls,” he said, “Well, Gurdy, I’ve just seen Miss Boyle.”
“Where?”
“At her hotel.--I’m mixed up in this and I thought I might help Mr.
Walling out. So I went to see her and had a talk. It didn’t come to
anything.” He sat down in Mark’s fireside chair, stooped his head and
brooded, “I’d a sneaking idea that this game was a sort of revenge.
Walling’s been good to her--done things for her. That might rankle.
Well, I pointed out that ‘Todgers’ is a waste of time. I did my best to
make her see that. It was funny.... She sat on a lounge and rocked a
cushion as if it were a baby--in her arms--Has she ever had a child?”
“I think not.”
“And she’s ten or eleven years older than Rand.... It’s no good. She
thinks he’s great in this play and she thinks it’ll run all winter
in New York. And there we are, Bernamer. She’s set on the thing. Mr.
Walling had better get it over as soon as he can. If he doesn’t, she’ll
be ugly. I’m mighty sorry.”
Gurdy blazed up in a mixture of wrath and impatience, “Oh, it’s all
such damned rot! Mark’s one of the best producers in the country and he
shouldn’t do this!... He should tell her to go to hell. It’s blackmail!
I’m going to tell him--”
After a moment Russell asked, “What?” and laughed kindly. Gurdy
shrugged and flinched before the laughter. The man was right. Mark
would go through with the beastly deal, wouldn’t consider risking
Margot’s name. There was no use in argument. He snapped, “Chivalry!”
“And you wouldn’t do it?”
“No,” said Gurdy, “No! It’s too thick. It is ironical. And he can’t
tell any one. Everyone’ll think he thinks this is a good play--worth
doing. The critics’ll jump all over him. They’ll--”
“The other proposition being that Miss Walling will lose her
reputation? She’s a young girl and not very clever or very
sophisticated, to judge by her talk. She’s read the smart novels, of
course. Quotes them a good deal.... You say you wouldn’t do this for
her? The world being as it is? Tell it to the fish, Bernamer!” Gurdy
felt weak before the cool, genial voice. Russell lit a pipe and went
on, “I feel the way you do. Only the world’s full of shorn lambs and
the wind’s damned cold.... Can you come to a show tonight?”
“Lord, no,” said Gurdy, “I’ve got to stay with Mark. He’s got to have
some one with him. Needs taking care of--”
Russell said, “To be sure,” with another laugh and went away. He sent
Gurdy the notices from the Baltimore papers after “Todgers Intrudes”
began its week there and with them a note: “Miss Boyle came down for
the opening. She is still sure this is a great play. Maternal feeling.
Rand seems nervous and loses his lines a good deal. He is probably
ashamed of himself. His English accent peels off now and then and he
talks flat Middle West American,” but the same mail brought a letter
from Olive Ilden, written at Denver, and this maddened Gurdy, as last
proof of Margot’s inconsequence.
“Dear Gurdy, The reaction has started. She is now certain that Rand
planned the whole filthy trick. She is so angry that there is nothing
left unsaid. He is a cheap bounder and a slacker etc. An actor can not
be anything else, she says. Everything is Mark’s fault or mine for
leaving her alone in Philadelphia. Do try to pity her a little, old
man. She has made a fearful fool of herself and knows it. The whole
thing is still horrible to me. I wish Mark had more humour or more
cold blood. Anything to help him through. I keep trying to remember a
quotation from Webster I threw at his head once. ‘These be the fair
rewards of those that love.’ It may be from Shakespeare. Did you try to
argue him out of making the production in New York? That would be your
logical attitude. But do take care of him.”
Gurdy tore the note up and went to pull on his riding clothes. The
frost had melted. Mark wanted a ride in the warm park. The boy thought
proudly that Mark hadn’t complained. He seemed quietly busy, arranging
advertisements for “Captain Salvador” which toured New England after
its week of Boston. Rumours of a triumph crept ahead of the play. Its
success, its investiture of light and colour would soothe Mark while
he still needed soothing. Gurdy rattled downstairs and Mark laughed at
him, “You look mighty well in ridin’ things, son!”
“So do you,” said Gurdy, in all honesty, and watched Mark beam,
settling his boots, the fit of his black coat. They rode into the empty
Park. Mark talked about horses and then about Gurdy’s brothers. One of
them wanted to be a soldier.
“You did that with your scar and all,” Mark said.
“Funny how easy a kid gets an ambition. Only thirteen. He’ll get over
it.”
“What did you want to be when you were thirteen, sonny?”
Gurdy strove to remember. He had probably wanted to be a theatrical
manager. He said, “I wanted to be a barber when I was nine or ten, I
remember that. And then I wanted to be an aviator--and now I want to
write plays....”
“Hurry and write me a good one, brother.”
Then Mark was silent. They cantered along in the creamy sunlight. A
great lady of artistic tastes reducing her weight bowed jerkily to
Mark from her burdened gelding and called, “Can you bring Miss Walling
to luncheon Sunday?” Gurdy saw Mark’s mouth twist. It needed courage
to call so easily back, “She’s gone to Japan.” But a hundred yards
afterward Mark reined in and stared at the sun, his face tormented.
“Sonny, I may have to open the Walling with ‘Todgers Intrudes’.”
“No!”
“Fact. I can’t take a chance with Cora gettin’ nasty. I can’t risk it.
And I can’t get a house for love or money. I tried to buy the show out
of the Princess last night. There ain’t a house empty.... I may have to
use the Walling--open it with this--this--” He slashed his crop though
the air, was ashamed of himself and sat chewing a lip. Gurdy could keep
his emotions so well covered just as he now hid and nobly lied about
his heartbreak over Margot. Mark’s sense of hurt swelled and broke out,
“Oh, women are hell! If they want a thing they’ll do anything to get
it! They--they scare me, Gurd! When they want a thing!... And look how
she treated you!”
“Oh, Mark, honestly, I wasn’t in love with her!”
Mark knew better but Gurdy’s brave mendacity cheered him. He grinned
and rode on. He must think of ways to make Gurdy forget the girl. When
they reached the house he telephoned the gayest folk he could find
and summoned them to a luncheon. He worked in a fever, keeping Gurdy
busy with new plays, ritual lunches at the Algonquin and motor trips
to country inns where they hadn’t been with Margot who somehow wavered
in Mark’s mind. He began to lose an immediate, answering picture of
her. It was hard to recall her phrases of later time. Things she had
said and poses of her childhood rose more clearly. She merged in his
perplexed hunt for a theatre. When he found, on the first of December,
that he couldn’t rent or beg a playhouse for “Todgers Intrudes”
he hated Margot for an hour and tramped his library in a sweat of
loathing. He must defame the Walling with this nonsense, finish his
bargain by dishonouring himself and his dream, for the Walling was not
altogether real. He roamed the shell where workmen were covering the
naked chairs with dull blue, in a haze. The smell of banana oil and
turpentine made him dizzy. The silver and black boxes seemed vaporous
like the mist of the ceiling when the lamps were tried on its surface.
He had moments of sheer glory through which came burning the thought
of Cora Boyle and Margot, in this queer alliance. His offices were
transferred to broad rooms by the white landing of the wide stairs in
the Walling. There was an alcove for Gurdy’s desk and here Mark told
him suddenly, “Goin’ to bring ‘Todgers’ in here next week, son.”
Gurdy paled, leaned on the new desk and flexed his hands on his fair
head. He said, “Oh, no!”
“Got to, son. I’ve tried all I know.”
The boy babbled, “Don’t do it!... Oh, damn it! You’ve been working for
this place for years and--It’s not worth it! Look here, let me go talk
to this damned woman!”
“No. I’ve got some pride left, son. You shan’t go near her. You go down
to the farm and stay with the folks.”
Gurdy wanted nothing more. All the pressmen and underlings were puzzled
by Mark’s maintenance of the English comedy on the road. It was not
making money. The theatrical weeklies had warned New York how bad was
“Todgers Intrudes.” Gurdy drove his motor down to Fayettesville on
Saturday, had a fit of shame and hurried back on Sunday. On the face
of the Walling the dead electric bulbs told the news, “Mark Walling
Presents Todgers Intrudes With Cosmo Rand” and Mark’s treasurer came
out of the white doors to expostulate.
“I don’t get this. Your uncle’s playin’ for a dead loss, Mr. Bernamer.
It’s no damn good.”
“Where is he?”
“Went up to New Haven yesterday. ‘Captain Salvador’ played there last
night. Say, what’s the idea? This ‘Todgers’ ain’t done a thing but eat
up money. Every one knows it’s a frost!” The man worried openly.
There could be no explanation, Gurdy saw. The critics would jeer.
Mark’s friends would chaff him. The boy patted his wheel and asked,
“What night does it open?”
“Wednesday, like ‘Captain Salvador’ was to. Honest, Mr. Bernamer, this
is hell!”
Gurdy drove off to a restaurant for dinner and here a critic stopped
him on the sill to ask whether Mark had gone “quite, quite mad?” Monday
was barren anguish, watching Mark’s face. “Captain Salvador” would play
in Hartford and Providence all week. On Tuesday there was a rehearsal
of “Todgers Intrudes” and Gurdy found a black motor initialed C. B.
when he came to the Walling. Workmen were polishing the brass of the
outer doors and the programs for tomorrow night were ready. Everything
was ready for the sick farce. On Wednesday morning Mark ate breakfast
with heroic grins and talked of playing golf in the afternoon. But he
hadn’t slept well. His eyes were flecked with red. Bone showed under
his cheeks. His black had an air of candid mourning.
“The best joke’d be if the damned thing made a hit,” he said.
“I think that would be a little too ironical,” Gurdy snapped.
“This is what you’d call ironical, ain’t it? Well, I’m going down to
the office for a minute. Don’t come. Send for the horses and we’ll go
riding about eleven.”
He walked to the Walling, was halted a dozen times and found the
antechamber full of people. Some had appointments. He sat talking
for an hour and then started downstairs. But he saw Cosmo Rand on the
white floor of the vestibule, slim in a grey furred coat, reading a
newspaper. The blue walls of the stair seemed to press Mark’s head.
He turned back into the office and sent for his house manager. When
the man came Mark said, “I’m not going to be here tonight, Billy. Tell
anybody that asks I’m sick as a dog and couldn’t come.”
“All right. Say, sir, would you mind telling me just why--”
Mark beamed across the desk and lied, “Why, this fellow Dufford that
wrote this is a friend of mine and he’s poor as a churchmouse. I
thought I’d take a chance.”
The manager shuffled and blurted, “It’s a damn poor chance.”
“Mighty poor, Billy. Well, the show business is a gamble, anyhow.”
Rand was gone from the vestibule. Mark walked seething over Broadway
and into Sixth Avenue. He must think of something to do, tonight. He
couldn’t sit at home. The flags on the Hippodrome wagged to him. He
went there and bought two seats. The tickets stayed unmentioned in his
pocket all the deadly afternoon. At six he said shyly to Gurdy, “Think
you want to see this tonight, son?”
“Might as well, sir.”
The “sir” pleased Mark. It rang respectfully. He stammered, “I got a
couple of seats for the show at the Hippodrome and--”
“That’s good,” Gurdy said, “We needn’t dress, then.”
But Mark sat haunted in the vast theatre, watching the stage. He had
deserted his own, run from disaster. The Walling revenged itself. He
saw the misty ceiling wane as lights lowered and the remote rims of
silver mirrors fade in the corners of the gallery. The glow from the
stage would show the massed shoulders of women in the black boxes. Cora
Boyle would be sitting in the righthand box. She might wear a yellow
gown. He would risk seeing that to be mixed in his dream. It was the
best theatre of the city, of the world. He blinked at the monstrous
evolutions of this chorus, peered at Gurdy and saw the boy sit moodily,
knee over knee, listless from grieving, his arms locked. The time
ticked on Mark’s wrist--The critics would be filing into the white
vestibule where men must admire the dull blue panels of clear enamel,
the simple, grooved ceiling and the hidden lamps. The yellow smoke
room would be full. He wanted to be there in the face of derision.
A dry aching shook Mark. It was like the past time when Gurdy first
went to school or when Margot had gone to England; the Walling was
his child. He had desired it beyond any woman. He adored it out of
his wretchedness. He pressed his shoulder against Gurdy for the sake
of warmth and Gurdy grinned loyally at him. There was no one so kind
as Gurdy who began to tell silly tales when they came home and sat on
Mark’s bed smoking cigarettes. In the morning the boy brought up the
papers and said gruffly, “Not as bad as I thought--”
“Oh, get out! I bet they’re fierce,” Mark laughed, “Read me some.”
Gurdy dropped the damp sheets on the quilt, glared at them and dashed
his hand against the foot of the bed. He cried, “I don’t give a d-damn
what they say about the play! They’ve no right to talk about you like
that!”
Immense warmth flooded Mark. He sat up and said, “Sure they have. For
all they know I thought this thing was fine.... God bless you, son!” He
wanted to do something for Gurdy directly. “Say, for heaven’s sake,
brother, those clothes are too thin for winter. We’ll run down and
order you some. And let’s go down to the farm. I ain’t seen dad and
your mother in a dog’s age.--And hell, this ain’t so bad, Gurdy. The
thing’ll dry up and blow away. We’ll bring ‘Captain Salvador’ in. I’ve
had worse luck on a rabbit hunt.”
But at Fayettesville where his father asked why Margot hadn’t come
to say good-bye, Mark was still plagued by visionary glimpses of the
Walling, half-filled by yawning folk, the black boxes empty. The flat
country was deep in moist snow. Snow had to be considered. Audiences
laughed nowadays at the best paper flakes. He talked to Gurdy about it
on Saturday morning.
“Pale blue canvas with the whitest light you can get jammed on it. That
might work.”
“Mark, if you couldn’t have scenery for a play would you--”
Mark scoffed, “What’s a play without scenery?--Hey, look at the red
car.... No, it’s a motor-bike.”
A lad on a red motorcycle whipped in a bright streak up the lane and
through a snow ball battle of Gurdy’s brothers. He had a telegram for
Mark from the house manager of the Walling: “No sale for next week.
Miss Boyle requests play be withdrawn. Instruct.”
“Got her bellyfull,” Mark said and scribbled a return message ordering
“Todgers Intrudes” withdrawn then another to the manager of “Captain
Salvador” in Providence. He told Gurdy, “Now, she can’t say a thing.
Well, let’s get back to town, son. We’ll have a lot to do, bringing
‘Salvador’ in next Wednesday.”
His motor carried them swiftly up New Jersey. Gurdy lounged and
chattered beside Mark who couldn’t feel triumphant though he tried.
The drive had been made so often with Margot and now he saw the child
in all clarity, her bright pumps and the silver buckles she so liked
stretched on the warmer close to his feet. Her older beauty flickered
and faded like some intervening mist. Pain stabbed and jarred him. The
snow of the upland gave out. Rain began. When they reached Broadway its
lights were violet and wistful in the swirl above umbrellas.
“God, what an ugly town,” said Gurdy.
“Ain’t it? Don’t know what people that like something pretty’d do if it
weren’t for the shows--and the damned movies.”
They dined in a restaurant and another manager chaffed Mark about
“Todgers Intrudes” leaning drunk on the table.
“And I hear it goes to the storehouse?”
“Yes ... but the show business is a gamble, Bill.”
“Ain’t it? Say, have you seen this hunk of nothin’ I’ve got up to my
place? Have you seen it? God, go up and take a look at it! I get a
bellyache every time I go near it. Turnin’ them away, though. Well,
here today and hell tomorrow.”
His treasurer came to meet Mark in the glittering vestibule where a
few men smoked forlornly against the blue panels. Mark glanced at the
slip showing the receipts and laughed, commenced talking of “Captain
Salvador.” His force gathered about him. Gurdy strolled away. A petty
laughter rattled out of the doors and Gurdy passed in. The lit stage
showed him a sprinkle of heads on the sweep of the seats. There was no
one in the boxes. Two ushers were rolling dice by the white arch of the
smokeroom. A couple of women left the poor audience and hurried by the
boy dejectedly. He walked out through the vestibule where more men were
collecting around Mark’s height and the swift happiness of his face
as he talked of next week. Gurdy marched along the proud front of the
theatre and turned into the alley that led from street to street. One
bulb shone above the stage door and sent down a glistening coat for the
large black motor standing there. Gurdy kept close to the other wall.
There was a woman smoking in the limousine. The spark made a heart
inside the shadow. Gurdy stared and was eaten by rage against her. He
stood staring.
The stage door opened. The few performers began to leave. They moved
up or down the alley to join the bright motion of the glowing streets
outside. Their feet stirred the pools of rain on the pavement. Their
voices ebbed and tinkled in the lofty alley. At last a slim man in
a grey coat ran from the door and jumped into the black motor which
moved, now, and slid away, jolted into the southward street. Gurdy was
moving, too, when other lights woke high on the brick wall. An iron
shutter grated, opening, and men appeared in the fissure. They bellowed
down to the old doorkeeper, “Ain’t them guys from Cain’s got here, yet?”
“They ain’t to come ’til eleven fifteen.”
“Hell, it’s after!”