Regaining control of her fl.u.s.tered thoughts, Joan found Quard eyeing her with odd intentness.
"Friend of yours?" he demanded with a sneer and a backward jerk of his head.
"Yes--the husband of a friend of mine," she replied quickly.
The actor digested this information grimly. "Swell friends you"ve got, all right!" he commented, not without a touch of envy. "Now I begin to understand.... What"s Marbridge going to do for you?"
"Do for me? Mr. Marbridge? Why, nothing," she answered blankly, in a breath. "I don"t know what you mean."
"That"s all right then. But take a friendly tip, and give him the office the minute he begins to talk about influencing managers to star you.
I"ve heard about that guy, and he"s a rotten proposition--grab it from me. He"s Arlington"s silent partner--and you know what kind of a rep.
Arlington"s got."
"No, I don"t," Joan challenged him sharply. "What"s more, I don"t care.
Anyway, I don"t see what Arlington"s reputation"s got to do with my being a friend of Marbridge"s wife."
"No more do I," grumbled Quard--"not if Marbridge believes you are."
XXIII
Before leaving the restaurant Quard outlined in detail his plans for producing "The Lie" for vaudeville presentation. He named the other two actors, spoke of hiring a negro dresser who would double as the servant, and indicated his intention of engaging a producing director of the first calibre who, he said, thought highly of the play.
Joan was a little overcome. Peter Gloucester was a producer quite worthy to be named in the same breath with Wilbrow.
"Well, he believes in the piece," Quard explained--"the same as me--and he says he"ll give us ten afternoon rehearsals for a hundred and fifty.
It"ll be worth it."
"You must think so," said Joan, a little awed.
"You bet I do. This means a lot to me, anyway; I gotta do something to keep my head above out-of-town stock--or the movies again." Mentioning his recent experience, he shuddered realistically. "But if this piece ain"t actor-proof, I"m no judge. Gloucester says so, too. And to have him tune it up into a reg"lar cla.s.sy act will be worth ... something, I tell you!"
His hesitation was due to the fact that Quard was secretly counting on the representations of his agent, Boskerk, who insisted that, properly presented, the sketch would earn at least four hundred and fifty dollars a week, instead of the sum he had named to Joan.
But Joan overlooked this lamely retrieved slip; she was all preoccupied with a glowing sense of gratification growing out of this endors.e.m.e.nt of her first surmise, that Quard had only waited on her consent to go ahead. The thought was unctuous flattery to her conceit, inflating it tremendously even in the face of a shrewd suspicion that it was sentiment more than an exaggerated conception of her ability that made Quard reckon her cooperation indispensable. That the man was infatuated with her she was quite convinced; on the other hand, she didn"t believe him sufficiently blinded by pa.s.sion to imperil the success of his venture by giving her the chief part unless he believed she could play it--"actor-proof" or no.
"Lis"n, girlie," Quard pursued after one meditative moment: "could you begin rehearsing tomorrow?"
"Of course I could."
"Because if we don"t, we lose three days...."
"How?"
"Well," Quard explained with a sheepish grin, "I guess I ain"t any more nutty than the next actor you"ll meet on Broadway; but I"d as lief slip my bank-roll to the waiter for a tip as start anything on a Friday. And Sat"day and Sunday"s busy days for the Jinx, too. I got too much up to wish anything mean onto this piece!..."
At his suggestion they left the dining-room by the hotel entrance on Forty-fourth Street, and Joan waited in the lobby while Quard telephoned Gloucester.
"It"s all right," he announced, beaming as he emerged from the booth--"Pete"s ready to commence tomorrow aft"noon. Now I got to hustle and round up the rest of the bunch."
"Where will it be?" asked Joan.
"Don"t know yet--I"ll "phone you where in the morning, at the latest...."
Hastening home, Joan plunged at once into the study of her part, with the greater readiness since the occupation was anodynous to an uneasy conscience. Though she was always what is known as a "quick study," this new role was a difficult one; by far the longest, and unquestionably the most important, it comprised fully half the total number of "sides" in the ma.n.u.script--nearly half as many again as were contained in Quard"s part, the next in order of significance. And her application, that first day, was hindered by a perplexing interruption in the early evening, when a box was delivered to her containing a dozen magnificent red roses and nothing else--neither a card nor a line of identification.
At first inclining to credit Quard with this extravagance, on second thought she remembered Marbridge, whom she felt instinctively to be quite capable of such overtures. And her mind was largely distracted for the rest of the night by empty guesswork and futile attempts to decide whether or not she ought to run the risk of thanking Quard when next they met.
Eventually she made up her mind to let the sender furnish the clue; and inasmuch as Quard never said anything which the most ready imagination could interpret as a reference to the offering, she came in time to feel tolerably satisfied that the anonymous donor must have been Marbridge.
It was to be long, however, before this surmise could be confirmed; although, on getting home Sat.u.r.day night, after a hard day"s work and a late dinner with Quard, she was informed that a gentleman had called and asked for her during the afternoon, but had left neither word nor card.
The same thing happened on Monday, under like circ.u.mstances; after which the attempts to see her were discontinued.
And then, Joan noticed that Venetia didn"t call....
Interim, the task of whipping "The Lie" into shape went on so steadily that she had little leisure to waste wondering about Marbridge or feeling flattered by his interest; and she even ceased, except at odd moments, to regard Quard as a man and therefore a possible conquest: Gloucester drilled the actors without mercy and spared himself as little.
A pursy body, with the childish, moon-like face of a born comedian, he applied himself to the work with the extravagant solemnity of a minor poet mouthing his own perfumed verses at a literary dinner. During rehearsals his manner was immitigably austere, aloof, inspired; but however precious his methods, he achieved brilliant effects in the despised medium of clap-trap melodrama; and under his tutelage even Joan achieved surprising feats of emotional portrayal--and this, singularly enough, without learning to despise him as she had despised Wilbrow.
She learned what either Wilbrow had lacked the time to teach her or she had then been unable to learn: how to a.s.sume the requisite mood the moment she left the wings and drop it like a mask as soon as she came off-stage again. She was soon able to hate and fear Quard with every fibre of her being throughout their long scenes of dialogue, and to chat with him in unfeigned amiability both before and after. And her liking and admiration for the man deepened daily, as Gloucester deftly moulded Quard"s plastic talents into a rude but powerful impersonation.
Partly because of the brevity of the little play, which enabled them to run through it several times of an afternoon as soon as they were familiar with its lines, and partly because Gloucester was hard up and in a hurry to collect his fee, the company was prepared well within the designated ten days. And through the agent Boskerk"s influence, they were favoured with an early opportunity to present it at a "professional try-out" matinee, a weekly feature of one of the better-cla.s.s moving-picture and vaudeville houses.
The audiences attracted by such trial performances are the most singular imaginable in composition, and of a temper the most difficult--with the possible exceptions of a London first-night house bent on booing whatever the merits of the offering, and a body of jaded New York dramatic critics and apathetic theatre loungers a.s.sembled for the fourth consecutive first-night of a week toward the end of a long, hard winter.
On Tuesday afternoons and nights (as a rule) they foregather in the "combination houses" of New York, animated (save for a sprinkling of agents and bored managers) by a single motive, the desire to laugh--preferably at, but at a pinch with, those attempting to win their approbation. Their sense of humour has been nourished on the sidewalk banana-peel, the slap-stick and the patch on the southern exposure of the tramp"s trousers; and while they will accept with the silence of curiosity, if not of respect, and at times even applaud, straight "legitimate" acting, the slightest slip or evidence of hesitation on the part of an actor, the faintest suggestion of bathos in a line, or even the tardy adjustment of one of the wings after the rise of the curtain, will be hailed with shrieks of delight and derision.
Before an a.s.semblage of this character, "The Distinguished Romantic Actor, Chas. H. Quard & Company," presented "The Lie" as the fifth number of a matinee bill.
Waiting in the wings and watching the stage-hands shift and manoeuvre flats and ceiling, and arrange furniture and properties at the direction of the _David_ (who doubled that role with the duties of stage manager) Joan listened to the dreadful wails of a voiceless vocalist who, on the other side of the scene-drop, was rendering with sublime disregard for key and tempo a ballad of sickening sentimentality; heard the feet of the audience, stamping in time, drown out both song and accompaniment, the subsequent roar of laughter and hand-clapping that signalized the retirement of the singer, and experienced, for the first and only time, premonitory symptoms of stage-fright.
Through what seemed a wait of several minutes after the disappearance of the despised singer--who, half-reeling, half-running, with tears furrowing her enameled cheeks, brushed past Joan on her way to her dressing-room--the applause continued, rising, falling, dying out and reviving in vain attempts to lure the object of its ridicule back to the footlights.
At a word from _David_, the stage-hands vanished, and at his nod Joan moved on. _David_ seated himself and opened a newspaper while the girl, trembling, took up a position near a property fireplace, with an after-dinner coffee-cup and saucer in her hands. She was looking her best in the evening frock purchased for the week-end at Tanglewood, and was in full command of her lines and business; but there was a lump in her throat and a sickly sensation in the pit of her stomach as the cheap orchestra took up the refrain of a time-worn melody which had been pressed into service as curtain music.
Peering over the edge of his newspaper, _David_ spoke final words of kindly counsel: "Don"t you mind, whatever happens. Make believe they ain"t no audience."
The house was quiet, now, and the music very clear.
Kneeling within the recess of the fireplace, almost near enough to touch her hand, Quard begged plaintively: "For the love of Gawd, don"t let their kidding queer you, girlie. Remember, Boskerk promised he"d have Martin Beck out front!"
Joan nodded--gulped.
The curtain rose. Through the glare of footlights the auditorium was vaguely revealed, a vast and gloomy amphitheatre dotted with an infinite, orderly mult.i.tude of round pink spots, and still with the hush of expectancy. Joan thought of a dotted lavender foulard she had recently coveted in a department-store; and the ridiculous incongruity of this comparison in some measure restored her a.s.surance. Turning her head slowly, she looked at _David_, who was properly intent on his newspaper, smiled, and parted her lips to speak the opening line.
From the gallery floated a shrill, boyish squeal: