The window of Sally's sitting-room looked out on to a streetwhich, while not one of the city's important arteries, was capable,nevertheless, of affording a certain amount of entertainment to theobserver: and after Ginger had left, she carried the morning paper tothe window-sill and proceeded to divide her attention between a thirdreading of the fight-report and a lazy survey of the outer world. It wasa beautiful day, and the outer world was looking its best.
She had not been at her post for many minutes when a taxi-cab stoppedat the apartment-house, and she was surprised and interested to see herbrother Fillmore heave himself out of the interior. He paid the driver,and the cab moved off, leaving him on the sidewalk casting a largeshadow in the sunshine. Sally was on the point of calling to him, whenhis behaviour became so odd that astonishment checked her.
From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practisingthe steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would donext kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sortof way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back.This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thoughtbefore making another dash for the door, which, like the others, cameto an abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And,finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lostto view.
Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble tocome in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned theidea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mysterywhen the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily inher ear.
"Sally?"
"Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?"
"What am I... Call what?"
"The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your owninvention, isn't it?"
"Did you see me?" said Fillmore, upset.
"Of course I saw you. I was fascinated."
"I--er--I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally..."
Fillmore's voice trailed off.
"Well, why didn't you?"
There was a pause--on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voicecorrectly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something wasplainly vexing Fillmore's great mind.
"Sally," he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver.
"Yes."
"I--that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to seeyou very shortly. Will you be in?"
"I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again."
"She is very well. A trifle--a little upset."
"Upset? What about?"
"She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her.She is coming at once." There was another pause. "I'm afraid she has badnews."
"What news?"
There was silence at the other end of the wire.
"What news?" repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries.
But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully. Shewas puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained byworrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and tried todivert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bell broughther out, to find her sister-in-law.
Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position ofpartnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected nonoticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore shewas the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscularmanner and went on in the sitting-room.
"Well, it's great seeing you again," she said. "I began to think youwere never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to Englandlike that?"
Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.
"I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt."
"Who's Mr. Faucitt?"
"Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at theboarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmakingestablishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what todo about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country."
"Well, the trip's done you good," said Mrs. Fillmore. "You're prettierthan ever."
There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sallyhad sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missedthat careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic ofMiss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. FillmoreNicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had notnoticed this, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on hercompanion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.
"What's the bad news?" asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end thesuspense. "Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some badnews for me."
Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of herparasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to thequestion.
"Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?"
"Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?"
"He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy aboutyou and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down."
Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, haveexpected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.
"Yes," she said. "That's true."
"You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?"
Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intenselyindependent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.
"I suppose I could if I had--but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you to tryto talk me round?"
"Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round," said Mrs. Fillmore quickly."Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone intomarrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too manymarriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland."
Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.
"Elsa?" she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook."Has--has her marriage gone wrong?"
"Gone all to bits," said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. "You remember shemarried Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?"
Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.
"Yes, I remember," she said.
"Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute.Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it...I mean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man ornot... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass,and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what Iwanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one'sown mind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... andFillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world..."
Sally stopped her.
"No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle."
"That's that, then," said Mrs. Fillmore. "It's a pity, though."
"Why are you taking it so much to heart?" said Sally with a nervouslaugh.
"Well..." Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must,she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if ithad the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in hertalk. "You see..." went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. "Gee! I'mhating this!" she murmured.
"What is it? I don't understand."
"You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through," saidMrs. Fillmore mournfully. "If I'm going to explain this thing, Iguess I'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue ofFillmore's--the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!"
"Oh!"
"Yes. It flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York atall. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wantedfixing and the numbers wanted fixing and the scenery wasn't right: andwhile they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about thecast and the Actors Equity closed the show. Best thing that could havehappened, really, a
nd I was glad at the time, because going on withit would only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortunealready. After that Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's and thatwas a frost, too. It ran a week at the Booth. I hear the new piece he'sgot in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called 'The Wild Rose,' orsomething. But Fillmore's got nothing to do with that."
"But..." Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on.
"Don't talk just yet, or I shall never get this thing straight. Well,you know Fillmore, poor darling. Anyone else would have pulled in hishorns and gone slow for a spell, but he's one of those fellows whosehorse is always going to win the next race. The big killing is alwaysjust round the corner with him. Funny how you can see what a chump a manis and yet love him to death... I remember saying something like that toyou before... He thought he could get it all back by staging this fightof his that came off in Jersey City last night. And if everything hadgone right he might have got afloat again. But it seems as if he can'ttouch anything without it turning to mud. On the very day before thefight was to come off, the poor mutt who was going against the championgoes and lets a sparring-partner of his own knock him down and foolaround with him. With all the newspaper men there too! You probablysaw about it in the papers. It made a great story for them. Well, thatkilled the whole thing. The public had never been any too sure that thisfellow Bugs Butler had a chance of putting up a scrap with the championthat would be worth paying to see; and, when they read that he couldn'teven stop his sparring-partners slamming him all around the place theysimply decided to stay away. Poor old Fill! It was a finisher forhim. The house wasn't a quarter full, and after he'd paid these twopluguglies their guarantees, which they insisted on having before they'dso much as go into the ring, he was just about cleaned out. So there youare!"
Sally had listened with dismay to this catalogue of misfortunes.
"Oh, poor Fill!" she cried. "How dreadful!"
"Pretty tough."
"But 'The Primrose Way' is a big success, isn't it?" said Sally, anxiousto discover something of brightness in the situation.
"It was." Mrs. Fillmore flushed again. "This is the part I hate havingto tell you."
"It was? Do you mean it isn't still? I thought Elsa had made such atremendous hit. I read about it when I was over in London. It was evenin one of the English papers."
"Yes, she made a hit all right," said Mrs. Fillmore drily. "She madesuch a hit that all the other managements in New York were after herright away, and Fillmore had hardly sailed when she handed in her noticeand signed up with Goble and Cohn for a new piece they are starring herin."
"Ah, she couldn't!" cried Sally.
"My dear, she did! She's out on the road with it now. I had to break thenews to poor old Fillmore at the dock when he landed. It was rather ablow. I must say it wasn't what I would call playing the game. I knowthere isn't supposed to be any sentiment in business, but after all wehad given Elsa her big chance. But Fillmore wouldn't put her name upover the theatre in electrics, and Goble and Cohn made it a clause inher contract that they would, so nothing else mattered. People are likethat."
"But Elsa... She used not to be like that."
"They all get that way. They must grab success if it's to be grabbed.I suppose you can't blame them. You might just as well expect a cat tokeep off catnip. Still, she might have waited to the end of the New Yorkrun." Mrs. Fillmore put out her hand and touched Sally's. "Well, I'vegot it out now," she said, "and, believe me, it was one rotten job. Youdon't know how sorry I am. Sally. I wouldn't have had it happen for amillion dollars. Nor would Fillmore. I'm not sure that I blame him forgetting cold feet and backing out of telling you himself. He just hadn'tthe nerve to come and confess that he had fooled away your money. He washoping all along that this fight would pan out big and that he'd beable to pay you back what you had loaned him, but things didn't happenright."
Sally was silent. She was thinking how strange it was that this room inwhich she had hoped to be so happy had been from the first moment of heroccupancy a storm centre of bad news and miserable disillusionment. Inthis first shock of the tidings, it was the disillusionment that hurtmost. She had always been so fond of Elsa, and Elsa had always seemedso fond of her. She remembered that letter of Elsa's with all itsprotestations of gratitude... It wasn't straight. It was horrible.Callous, selfish, altogether horrible...
"It's..." She choked, as a rush of indignation brought the tears to hereyes. "It's... beastly! I'm... I'm not thinking about my money. That'sjust bad luck. But Elsa..."
Mrs. Fillmore shrugged her square shoulders.
"Well, it's happening all the time in the show business," she said. "Andin every other business, too, I guess, if one only knew enough aboutthem to be able to say. Of course, it hits you hard because Elsa was apal of yours, and you're thinking she might have considered you afterall you've done for her. I can't say I'm much surprised myself." Mrs.Fillmore was talking rapidly, and dimly Sally understood that she wastalking so that talk would carry her over this bad moment. Silence nowwould have been unendurable. "I was in the company with her, and itsometimes seems to me as if you can't get to know a person right throughtill you've been in the same company with them. Elsa's all right, butshe's two people really, like these dual identity cases you read about.She's awfully fond of you. I know she is. She was always saying so,and it was quite genuine. If it didn't interfere with business there'snothing she wouldn't do for you. But when it's a case of her career youdon't count. Nobody counts. Not even her husband. Now that's funny.If you think that sort of thing funny. Personally, it gives me thewillies."
"What's funny?" asked Sally, dully.
"Well, you weren't there, so you didn't see it, but I was on the spotall the time, and I know as well as I know anything that he simplymarried her because he thought she could get him on in the game. Hehardly paid any attention to her at all till she was such a riot inChicago, and then he was all over her. And now he's got stung. Shethrows down his show and goes off to another fellow's. It's likemarrying for money and finding the girl hasn't any. And she's got stung,too, in a way, because I'm pretty sure she married him mostly becauseshe thought he was going to be the next big man in the play-writingbusiness and could boost her up the ladder. And now it doesn't look asthough he had another success in him. The result is they're at outs. Ihear he's drinking. Somebody who'd seen him told me he had gone all topieces. You haven't seen him, I suppose?"
"No."
"I thought maybe you might have run into him. He lives right opposite."
Sally clutched at the arm of her chair.
"Lives right opposite? Gerald Foster? What do you mean?"
"Across the passage there," said Mrs. Fillmore, jerking her thumb at thedoor. "Didn't you know? That's right, I suppose you didn't. They movedin after you had beaten it for England. Elsa wanted to be near you, andshe was tickled to death when she found there was an apartment to be hadright across from you. Now, that just proves what I was saying a whileago about Elsa. If she wasn't fond of you, would she go out of her wayto camp next door? And yet, though she's so fond of you, she doesn'thesitate about wrecking your property by quitting the show when she seesa chance of doing herself a bit of good. It's funny, isn't it?"
The telephone-bell, tinkling sharply, rescued Sally from the necessityof a reply. She forced herself across the room to answer it.
"Hullo?"
Ginger's voice spoke jubilantly.
"Hullo. Are you there? I say, it's all right, about that binge, youknow."
"Oh, yes?"
"That dog fellow, you know," said Ginger, with a slight diminution ofexuberance. His sensitive ear had seemed to detect a lack of animationin her voice. "I've just been talking to him over the 'phone, and it'sall settled. If," he added, with a touch of doubt, "you still feel likegoing into it, I mean."
There was an instant in which Sally hesitated, but it was only aninstant.
"Why, of course," she said, steadily. "Why should you think I hadchanged my mind?" br />
"Well, I thought... that is to say, you seemed... oh, I don't know."
"You imagine things. I was a little worried about something when youcalled me up, and my mind wasn't working properly. Of course, go aheadwith it. Ginger. I'm delighted."
"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're worried."
"Oh. it's all right."
"Something bad?"
"Nothing that'll kill me. I'm young and strong."
Ginger was silent for a moment.
"I say, I don't want to butt in, but can I do anything?"
"No, really, Ginger, I know you would do anything you could, but thisis just something I must worry through by myself. When do you go down tothis place?"
"I was thinking of popping down this afternoon, just to take a lookround."
"Let me know what train you're making and I'll come and see you off."
"That's ripping of you. Right ho. Well, so long."
"So long," said Sally.
Mrs. Fillmore, who had been sitting in that state of suspended animationwhich comes upon people who are present at a telephone conversationwhich has nothing to do with themselves, came to life as Sally replacedthe receiver.
"Sally," she said, "I think we ought to have a talk now about whatyou're going to do."
Sally was not feeling equal to any discussion of the future. All sheasked of the world at the moment was to be left alone.
"Oh, that's all right. I shall manage. You ought to be worrying aboutFillmore."
"Fillmore's got me to look after him," said Gladys, with quietdetermination. "You're the one that's on my mind. I lay awake all lastnight thinking about you. As far as I can make out from Fillmore, you'vestill a few thousand dollars left. Well, as it happens, I can put you onto a really good thing. I know a girl..."
"I'm afraid," interrupted Sally, "all the rest of my money, what thereis of it, is tied up."
"You can't get hold of it?"
"No."
"But listen," said Mrs. Fillmore, urgently. "This is a really goodthing. This girl I know started an interior decorating business sometime ago and is pulling in the money in handfuls. But she wants morecapital, and she's willing to let go of a third of the business toanyone who'll put in a few thousand. She won't have any difficultygetting it, but I 'phoned her this morning to hold off till I'd heardfrom you. Honestly, Sally, it's the chance of a lifetime. It would putyou right on easy street. Isn't there really any way you could get yourmoney out of this other thing and take on this deal?"
"There really isn't. I'm awfully obliged to you, Gladys dear, but it'simpossible."
"Well," said Mrs. Fillmore, prodding the carpet energetically with herparasol, "I don't know what you've gone into, but, unless they've givenyou a share in the Mint or something, you'll be losing by not making theswitch. You're sure you can't do it?"
"I really can't."
Mrs. Fillmore rose, plainly disappointed.
"Well, you know best, of course. Gosh! What a muddle everything is.Sally," she said, suddenly stopping at the door, "you're not going tohate poor old Fillmore over this, are you?"
"Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck."
"He's worried stiff about it."
"Well, give him my love, and tell him not to be so silly."
Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively.
"You're an angel," she said. "I wish there were more like you. But Iguess they've lost the pattern. Well, I'll go back and tell Fillmorethat. It'll relieve him."
The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin in her hands to think.
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