accent to much applause. Then the great drays from the storehouse came
grinding along the alley in a steam as the horses snorted. The stage
hands and carters swore at each other. The vast screens were slung and
handed down. The fleet quality of this failure bit Gurdy. He leaned
dreary on the wall and saw Mark standing close to him, face raised to
the lights, an odd small grin twisting his mouth. Mark did not move or
speak.
He was thinking confusedly of many things. It was hard to think at all.
One of the stage hands whistled a waltz that people liked. The melody
caught at Mark’s mind and drew it away from the moment, forward and
back. He hunted justice. Things went wrong. People weren’t kind. Next
week the new play would glitter and people would applaud. Gurdy might
come to write plays, the best possible plays. He watched the wreck
melt. People would forget this. It would sink into shadow. No one would
understand but they would forget. It was trivial in his long success.
It horribly hurt him. He had been fooled in love. It was laughable.
Things happened so. One must go on and forget about them. One of the
horses neighed and stamped. A blue spark jetted up from the pavement,
above a pool.
“Here goes nothin’,” a stage hand yelled, letting down the last screen.
The iron shutter closed over the laughter. The carters whined and the
drays were backed down the alley. The rain fell silently between Mark
the red of the wall making it purple--a wonderful colour. The guiding
lights went out. Mark sighed and took Gurdy’s arm. They walked together
toward the gleaming crowd of the street. Yet feeling this warmth beside
him Mark walked without much pain.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.