III.
Mr. Marrier was the first to recover from this blow to the prestige ofpoetry. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that Mr. Marrier hadsuffered no inconvenience from the contretemps. His apparent gleefulzest in life had not been impaired. He was a born optimist, of anextreme type unknown beyond the circumferences of theatrical circles.
"I _say_," he emphasised, "I've got an ideah. We ought to bephotographed like that. Do you no end of good." He glancedencouragingly at Rose Euclid. "Don't you see it in the illustratedpapers? 'A prayvate supper-party at Wilkins's Hotel. Miss Ra-ose Euclidreciting verse at a discussion of the plans for her new theatre inPiccadilly Circus. The figures reading from left to right are: Mr. SevenSachs, the famous actor-author; Miss Rose Euclid; Mr. Carlo Trent, thecelebrated dramatic poet; Mr. Alderman Machin, the well-known Midlandscapitalist,' and so on!" Mr. Marrier repeated, "and so on."
"It's a notion," said Rose Euclid dreamily.
"But how _can_ we be photographed?" Carlo Trent demanded withirritation.
"Perfectly easy."
"Now?"
"In ten minutes. I know a photographer in Brook Street."
"Would he come at once?" Carlo Trent frowned at his watch.
"Rather!" Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to thetelephone. And Mr. Marrier's bright boyish face radiated forth theassurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filledhim with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photograph ofthe party. Even in giving the photographer's number,--he was one ofthose prodigies who remember infallibly all telephone numbers,--hisvoice seemed to gloat upon his project.
(And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained communication with thephotographer, was saying gloriously into the telephone: "Yes, Wilkins's.No. Quite private. I've got Miss Rose Euclid here, and Mr. SevenSachs--" while Mr. Marrier was thus proceeding with his list of starattractions, Edward Henry was thinking: "'_Her_ new theatre,'--now! Itwas 'his' a few minutes back!...
"The well-known Midland capitalist, eh? Oh! Ah!")
He drank again. He said to himself: "I've had all I can digest of thisbeastly balloony stuff." (He meant the champagne.) "If I finish thisglass, I'm bound to have a bad night." And he finished the glass, andplanked it down firmly on the table.
"Well," he remarked aloud cheerfully, "if we're to be photographed, Isuppose we shall want a bit more light on the subject."
Joseph sprang to the switches.
"Please!" Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand.
The switches were not turned. In the beautiful dimness the greatesttragic actress in the world and the greatest dramatic poet in the worldgazed at each other, seeking and finding solace in mutual esteem.
"I suppose it wouldn't do to call it the Euclid Theater?" Rosequestioned casually, without moving her eyes.
"Splendid!" cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone.
"It all depends whether there are enough mathematical students in Londonto fill the theater for a run," said Edward Henry.
"Oh! D'you think so?" murmured Rose, surprised and vaguely puzzled.
At that instant Edward Henry might have rushed from the room and takenthe night mail back to the Five Towns, and never any more have venturedinto the perils of London, if Carlo Trent had not turned his head andsignified by a curt reluctant laugh that he saw the joke. For EdwardHenry could no longer depend on Mr. Seven Sachs. Mr. Seven Sachs had totake the greatest pains to keep the muscles of his face in strict order.The slightest laxity with them--and he would have been involved inanother and more serious suffocation.
"No," said Carlo Trent, "'The Muses' Theatre' is the only possibletitle. There is money in the poetical drama." He looked hard at EdwardHenry, as though to stare down the memory of the failure of Nashe'sverse. "I don't want money. I hate the thought of money. But money isthe only proof of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need, andwhat every artist needs.... Don't you think there's money in thepoetical drama, Mr. Sachs?"
"Not in America," said Mr. Sachs. "London is a queer place."
"Look at the runs of Stephen Phillips's plays!"
"Yes.... I only reckon to know America."
"Look at what Pilgrim's made out of Shakespeare."
"I thought you were talking about poetry," said Edward Henry toohastily.
"And isn't Shakespeare poetry?" Carlo Trent challenged.
"Well, I suppose if you put it in that way, he _is_!" Edward Henrycautiously admitted, humbled. He was under the disadvantage of neverhaving seen or read "Shakespeare." His sure instinct had always warnedhim against being drawn into "Shakespeare."
"And has Miss Euclid ever done anything finer than Constance?"
"I don't know," Edward Henry pleaded. "Why--Miss Euclid in 'KingJohn'--"
"I never saw 'King John,'" said Edward Henry.
"_Do you mean to say,_" expostulated Carlo Trent in italics, "_that younever saw Rose Euclid as Constance?_"
And Edward Henry, shaking his abashed head, perceived that his life hadbeen wasted.
Carlo, for a few moments, grew reflective and softer.
"It's one of my earliest and most precious boyish memories," hemurmured, as he examined the ceiling. "It must have been in eighteen--"
Rose Euclid abandoned the ice with which she had just been served, andby a single gesture drew Carlo's attention away from the ceiling andtowards the fact that it would be clumsy on his part to indulge furtherin the chronology of her career. She began to blush again.
Mr. Marrier, now back at the table after a successful expedition, beamedover his ice:
"It was your 'Constance' that led to your friendship with the Countessof Chell, wasn't it, Ra-ose? You know," he turned to Edward Henry, "MissEuclid and the countess are virry intimate."
"Yes, I know," said Edward Henry.
Rose Euclid continued to blush. Her agitated hand scratched the back ofthe chair behind her.
"Even Sir John Pilgrim admits I can act Shakespeare," she said in athick, mournful voice, looking at the cloth as she pronounced the augustname of the head of the dramatic profession. "It may surprise you toknow, Mr. Machin, that about a month ago, after he'd quarrelled withSelina Gregory, Sir John asked me if I'd care to star with him on hisShakespearean tour round the world next spring, and I said I would ifhe'd include Carlo's poetical play, 'The Orient Pearl,' and he wouldn't!No, he wouldn't! And now he's got little Cora Pryde! She isn'ttwenty-two, and she's going to play Juliet! Can you imagine such athing? As if a mere girl could play Juliet!"
Carlo observed the mature actress with deep satisfaction, proud of her,and proud also of himself.
"I wouldn't go with Pilgrim now," exclaimed Rose passionately, "not ifhe went down on his knees tome!"
"And nothing on earth would induce me to let him have 'The OrientPearl'!" Carlo Trent asseverated with equal passion. "He's lost thatforever," he added grimly. "It won't be he who'll collar the profitsout of that! It'll just be ourselves!"
"Not if he went down on his knees to me!" Rose was repeating to herselfwith fervency.
The calm of despair took possession of Edward Henry. He felt that hemust act immediately--he knew his own mood, by long experience.Exploring the pockets of the dressing-gown which had aroused the longingof the greatest dramatic poet in the world, he discovered in one of themprecisely the piece of apparatus he required; namely, a slip of papersuitable for writing. It was a carbon duplicate of the bill for thedressing-gown, and showed the word "Drook" in massive printed black, andthe figures L4-4-0 in faint blue. He drew a pencil from his waistcoatand inscribed on the paper:
"Go out, and then come back in a couple of minutes and tell me someonewants to speak to me urgently in the next room."
With a minimum of ostentation he gave the document to Joseph, who,evidently well trained under Sir Nicholas, vanished into the next roombefore attempting to read it.
"I hope," said Edward Henry to Carlo Trent, "that this money-making pl
ayis reserved for the new theatre."
"Utterly," said Carlo Trent.
"With Miss Euclid in the principal part?"
"Rather!" sang Mr. Marrier. "Rather!"
"I shall never, never appear at any other theatre, Mr. Machin!" saidRose with tragic emotion, once more feeling with her fingers along theback of her chair. "So I hope the building will begin at once. In lessthan six months we ought to open."
"Easily!" sang the optimist.
Joseph returned to the room, and sought his master's attention in awhisper.
"What is it?" Edward Henry asked irritably. "Speak up!"
"A gentleman wishes to know if he can speak to you in the next room,sir."
"Well, he can't."
"He said it was urgent, sir."
Scowling, Edward Henry rose. "Excuse me," he said. "I won't be amoment. Help yourselves to the liqueurs. You chaps can go, I fancy."The last remark was addressed to the gentlemen in waiting.
The next room was the vast bedroom with two beds in it. Edward Henryclosed the door carefully, and drew the portiere across it. Then helistened. No sound penetrated from the scene of the supper.
"There _is_ a telephone in this room, isn't there?" he said to Joseph."Oh, yes; there it is! Well, you can go."
"Yes, sir."
Edward Henry sat down on one of the beds by the hook on which hung thetelephone. And he cogitated upon the characteristics of certain membersof the party which he had just left. "I'm a 'virgin mind,' am I?" hethought. "I'm a 'clean slate'? Well! ... Their notion of business isto begin by discussing the name of the theatre! And they haven't eventaken up the option! Ye gods! 'Intellectual!' 'Muses!' 'The OrientPearl.' And she's fifty--that I swear! Not a word yet of realbusiness--not one word! He may be a poet. I dare say he is. He's aconceited ass. Why, even Bryany was better than that lot. Only Sachsturned Bryany out. I like Sachs. But he won't open his mouth....'Capitalist!' Well, they spoilt my appetite, and I hate champagne! ...The poet hates money.... No, he 'hates the thought of money.' Andshe's changing her mind the whole blessed time! A month ago she'd havegone over to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like a house a fire! ...Photographed indeed! The bally photographer will be here in a minute!... They take me for a fool! ... Or don't they know any better? ...Anyhow, I am a fool.... I must teach 'em summat!"
He seized the telephone.
"Hello!" he said into it. "I want you to put me on to the drawing-roomof Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I'm in the bedroom of Suite No.48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That's all right."
He waited. Then he heard Marrier's Kensingtonian voice in thetelephone, asking who he was.
"Is that Mr. Machin's room?" he continued, imitating with a broadfarcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier's tones. "IsMiss Ra-ose Euclid there? Oh! She is? Well, you tell her that SirJohn Pilgrim's private secretary wishes to speak to her. Thanks. Allright. _I'll_ hold the line."
A pause. Then he heard Rose's voice in the telephone, and he resumed:
"Miss Euclid? Yes. Sir John Pilgrim. I beg pardon! Banks? Oh,_Banks_! No, I'm not Banks. I suppose you mean my predecessor. He'sleft. Left last week. No, I don't know why. Sir John instructs me toask if you and Mr. Trent could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty?What? Oh! At his house. Yes. I mean flat. Flat! I said flat. Youthink you could?"
Pause. He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent.
"Thanks. No, I don't know exactly," he went on again. "But I know thearrangement with Miss Pryde is broken off. And Sir John wants a play atonce. He told me that. At once! Yes. 'The Orient Pearl.' That wasthe title. At the Royal first, and then the world's tour. Fifteenmonths at least, in all, so I gathered. Of course I don't speakofficially. Well, many thanks. Saoo good of you. I'll tell Sir Johnit's arranged. One-thirty to-morrow. Good-bye!"
He hung up the telephone. The excited, eager, effusive tones of RoseEuclid remained in his ears. Aware of a strange phenomenon on hisforehead, he touched it. He was perspiring.
"I'll teach 'em a thing or two," he muttered.
And again:
"Serves her right.... 'Never, never appear at any other theatre, Mr.Machin!' ... 'Bended knees!' ... 'Utterly!' ... Cheerful partners! Oh,cheerful partners!"
He returned to his supper-party. Nobody said a word about thetelephoning. But Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent looked even more likeconspirators than they did before; and Mr. Marrier's joy in life seemedto be just the least bit diminished.
"So sorry!" Edward Henry began hurriedly, and, without consulting thepoet's wishes, subtly turned on all the lights. "Now, don't you thinkwe'd better discuss the question of taking up the option? You know, itexpires on Friday."
"No," said Rose Euclid girlishly. "It expires to-morrow. That's whyit's so _fortunate_ we got hold of you to-night."
"But Mr. Bryany told me Friday. And the date was clear enough on thecopy of the option he gave me."
"A mistake of copying," beamed Mr. Marrier. "However, it's all right."
"Well," observed Edward Henry with heartiness, "I don't mind telling youthat for sheer calm coolness you take the cake. However, as Mr. Marrierso ably says, it's all right. Now, I understand if I go into thisaffair I can count on you absolutely, and also on Mr. Trent's services."He tried to talk as if he had been diplomatising with actresses andpoets all his life.
"Absolutely!" said Rose.
And Mr. Carlo Trent nodded.
"You Iscariots!" Edward Henry addressed them, in the silence of thebrain, behind his smile. "You Iscariots!"
The photographer arrived with certain cases, and at once Rose Euclid andCarlo Trent began instinctively to pose.
"To think," Edward Henry pleasantly reflected, "that they are huggingthemselves because Sir John Pilgrim's secretary happened to telephonejust while I was out of the room!"
The Old Adam: A Story of Adventure Page 16
