II
Having duly "linoleumed them," or rather having very annoyingly quitefailed to "linoleum them," Edward Henry continued his way up theright-hand gallery staircase, and reached the auditorium, where to hisastonishment a good deal of electricity, at one penny three farthingsa unit, was blazing. Every seat in the narrow and high-pitchedgallery, where at the sides the knees of one spectator would be on alevel with the picture-hat of the spectator in the row beneath, hada perfect and entire view of the proscenium opening. And Edward Henrynow proved this unprecedented fact by climbing to the topmost cornerseat and therefrom surveying the scene of which he was monarch. Theboxes were swathed in their new white dust-sheets; and likewise thehiggledy-piggledy stalls, not as yet screwed down to the floor, savethree or four stalls in the middle of the front row, from which thesheet had been removed. On one of these seats, far off though it was,he could descry a paper bag--probably containing sandwiches--and onanother a pair of gloves and a walking-stick. Several alert ladieswith sketch-books walked uneasily about in the aisles. The orchestrawas hidden in the well provided for it, and apparently murmuringin its sleep. The magnificent drop-curtain, designed by SaracenGivington, A.R.A., concealed the stage.
Suddenly Mr. Marrier and Carlo Trent appeared through the iron doorthat gave communication--to initiates--between the wings and theauditorium; they sat down in the stalls. And the curtain rose with aviolent swish, and disclosed the first "set" of "The Orient Pearl."
"What about that amber, Cosmo?" Mr. Marrier cried thickly, after apause, his mouth occupied with sandwich.
"There you are!" came the reply.
"Right!" said Mr. Marrier. "Strike!"
"Don't strike!" contradicted Carlo Trent.
"Strike, I tell you! We must get on with the second act." The voicesresounded queerly in the empty theatre.
The stage was invaded by scene-shifters before the curtain coulddescend again.
Edward Henry heard a tripping step behind him. It was the faithfultypewriting girl.
"I say," he said. "Do you mind telling me what's going on here? It'strue that in the rush of more important business I'd almost forgottenthat a theatre is a place where they perform plays."
"It's the dress-rehearsal, Mr. Machin," said the woman, startled andapologetic.
"But the dress-rehearsal was fixed for three o'clock," said he. "Itmust have been finished three hours ago."
"I think they've only just done the first act," the woman breathed. "Iknow they didn't begin till seven. Oh! Mr. Machin, of course it'sno affair of mine, but I've worked in a good many theatres, and I dothink it's such a mistake to have the dress-rehearsal quite private.If you get a hundred or so people in the stalls then it's an audience,and there's much less delay and everything goes much better. But whenit's private a dress-rehearsal is just like any other rehearsal."
"Only more so--perhaps," said Edward Henry, smiling.
He saw that he had made her happy; but he saw also that he had givenher empire over him.
"I've got your tea here," she said, rather like a hospital-nurse now."Won't you drink it?"
"I'll drink it if it's not stewed," he muttered.
"Oh!" she protested, "of course it isn't! I poured it off the leavesinto another teapot before I brought it up."
She went behind the barrier, and reappeared balancing a cup of teawith a slice of sultana cake edged on to the saucer. And as she handedit to him--the sustenance of rehearsals--she gazed at him and he couldalmost hear her eyes saying: "You poor thing!"
There was nothing that he hated so much as to be pitied.
"You go home!" he commanded.
"Oh, but--"
"You go home! See?" He paused, threatening. "If you don't clear out onthe tick I'll chuck this cup and saucer down into the stalls."
Horrified, she vanished.
He sighed his relief.
After some time the leader of the orchestra climbed into his chair,and the orchestra began to play, and the curtain went up again, on thesecond act of the masterpiece in hexameters. The new scenery, whichEdward Henry had with extraordinary courage insisted on SaracenGivington substituting for the original incomprehensibilitiesdisplayed at the Azure Society's performance, rather pleased him. Itscolouring was agreeable, and it did resemble something definite. Youcould, though perhaps not easily, tell what it was meant to represent.The play proceeded, and the general effect was surprisingly pleasantto Edward Henry. And then Rose Euclid as Haidee came on for the greatscene of the act. From the distance of the gallery she looked quitepassably youthful, and beyond question she had a dominating presencein her resplendent costume. She was incomparably and amazingly betterthan she had been at the few previous rehearsals which Edward Henryhad been unfortunate enough to witness. She even reminded him of hisearliest entrancing vision of her.
"Some people may _like_ this!" he admitted, with a gleam of optimism.Hitherto, for weeks past, he had gone forward with his preparations inthe most frigid and convinced pessimism. It seemed to him that he hadbecome involved in a vast piece of machinery, and that nothing shortof blowing the theatre up with dynamite would bring the cranks andpistons to a stop. And yet it seemed to him also that everything wasunreal, that the contracts he signed were unreal, and the proofshe passed, and the posters he saw on the walls of London, and theadvertisements in the newspapers. Only the cheques he drew had the airof being real. And now, in a magic flash, after a few moments gazingat the stage, he saw all differently. He scented triumph from afaroff, as one sniffs the tang of the sea. On the morrow he had tomeet Nellie at Euston, and he had shrunk from meeting her, with herterrible remorseless, provincial, untheatrical common sense; butnow, in another magic flash, he envisaged the meeting with acock-a-doodle-doo of hope. Strange! He admitted it was strange.
And then he failed to hear several words spoken by Rose Euclid. Andthen a few more. As the emotion of the scene grew, the proportion ofher words audible in the gallery diminished. Until she became, forhim, totally inarticulate, raving away there and struggling in acocoon of hexameters.
Despair seized him. His nervous system--every separate nerve ofit--was on the rack once more.
He stood up in a sort of paroxysm, and called loudly across the vastintervening space:
"Speak more distinctly, please."
A fearful silence fell upon the whole theatre. The rehearsal stopped.The building itself seemed to be staggered. Somebody had actuallydemanded that words should be uttered articulately!
Mr. Marrier turned towards the intruder, as one determined to put anend to such singularities.
"Who's up theyah?"
"I am," said Edward Henry. "And I want it to be clearly understood inmy theatre that the first thing an actor has to do is to make himselfheard. I daresay I'm devilish odd, but that's how I look at it."
"Whom do you mean, Mr. Machin?" asked Marrier in a different tone.
"I mean Miss Euclid of course. Here I've spent heaven knows how muchon the acoustics of this theatre, and I can't make out a word shesays. I can hear all the others. And this is the dress-rehearsal!"
"You must remember you're in the gallery," said Mr. Marrier, firmly.
"And what if I am? I'm not giving gallery seats away to-morrow night.It's true I'm giving half the stalls away, but the gallery will bepaid for."
Another silence.
Said Rose Euclid, sharply, and Edward Henry caught every word with themost perfect distinctness:
"I'm sick and tired of people saying they can't make out what I say!They actually write me letters about it! Why _should_ people make outwhat I say?"
She quitted the stage.
Another silence....
"Ring down the curtain," said Mr. Marrier in a thrilled voice.