To Love Part 22

Despite all Swetenham's praise and the Miss Bevis' enthusiastic antic.i.p.ation d.i.c.k settled into his seat in the fourth row of the so-called stalls with the firm conviction that he was going to be thoroughly bored.

"The one consolation," he whispered to Mabel on their way in, "is that mother will not be able to sleep comfortably. I don't want to appear vicious, but really that is a consolation."

Mrs. Grant had apparently come to the same conclusion herself, for she was expressing great dissatisfaction in a queenly manner to the timid programme seller.

"Are these the best seats in the house?" they could hear her say. "It is quite absurd to expect anyone to sit in them for a whole evening."

Mabel had to laugh at d.i.c.k's remark, then she went forward to soothe her troubled parent as much as possible. "It isn't like a London theatre, mother, and Tom has ordered one of the cars to stay just outside. The minute you get tired he will take you straight home. He says he does not mind, as he has so often seen _The Merry Widow_ before."

"Oh, well," Mrs. Grant sighed, and settled her weighty body into one of the creaking, straight-backed wooden chairs of which the stalls were composed. "So long as you young people enjoy yourselves I do not really mind."

Swetenham had purchased a stack of programmes and was pointing out the stars on the list to the youngest Miss Bevis. The back of the hall was rapidly filling, and one or two other parties strolled into the stalls.

The orchestra had already commenced to play the overture rather shakily.

"Music, and bad music at that," groaned d.i.c.k inwardly. He took a despairing glance round him and wondered if it would be possible to go and lose himself after the first act. Then the lights went out abruptly and the curtain went up.

The beginning chorus dragged distinctly; d.i.c.k heard Swetenham whispering to his companions that it would be better when the princ.i.p.als came on.

In this he proved correct, for the _Merry Widow_ girl could sing, and she could also act. f.a.n.n.y's prettiness, her quick, light way of moving, shone out in contrast to her surroundings. High and sweet above the uncertain accompaniment her voice rose triumphant. The back of the house thundered with applause at the end of her song.

"Now wait," announced Swetenham, "the girl who dances comes on here. She hasn't any business to, it is not in the play, but old Brown finds it a good draw."

Mechanically the stage had been cleared, the characters sitting rather stiffly round the ball-room scene while the orchestra was making quite a good effort at "The Merry Widow Waltz." There was a second's pause, then down from the steps at the back of the stage came a girl; slim, straight-held, her eyes looking out over the audience as if they saw some vision beyond. It had taken Daddy Brown three very heated lessons to teach Joan this exact entrance. She was to move forward to the centre of the stage as if in a dream, almost sleep-walking, f.a.n.n.y had suggested, the music was calling her. She was to begin her dance languidly, unwillingly, till note by note the melody crept into her veins and set all her blood tingling. "Now for abandon," Daddy Brown would exclaim, thumping the top of the piano with his baton. "That is right, my girl, fling yourself into it." And Joan had learned her lesson well, Daddy Brown and f.a.n.n.y between them had wakened a talent to life in her which she had not known she possessed. Dance, yes, she could dance. The music seemed to give her wings. If she had seen her own performance she would probably have been a little shocked; she did not in the least realize how vividly she answered the call.

When she had finished she stood, flushed and breathless, listening to the shouted and clapped applause.

"Do it again, miss," a man's voice sounded from back in the hall. She tried to find him, to smile at him--that was more of f.a.n.n.y's teaching.

But Daddy Brown allowed no encores, it was only for a minute that she stood there, bowing and smiling, in her ridiculously short, flounced skirt and baby bodice, then the rest of the chorus moved out to take their places, and she vanished into the side wings again.

From the moment of her entry till the last flutter of her skirts as she ran off, d.i.c.k sat as if mesmerized, leaning slightly forward, his hands clenched. Every movement of her body had stabbed, as it were, at his heart. He had not heard the call of the music, he could not guess at the spirit that was awake in her, he only saw the abandon--of which Daddy Brown was so proud--the painted face, the smiles which came and went so gaily at the shouted applause. Common-sense might not kill love, but this! The knowledge that even this could not kill love was what clenched his hands.

At the end of the first act Swetenham leant across and asked if he was coming out for a drink. It may have been that the younger man had noticed d.i.c.k's intense interest in the dancer, or perhaps it was merely because he wished to air a familiarity which struck him as delightfully bold, anyway, as they strolled about outside he put a suggestion to d.i.c.k.

"If you can arrange to stay on after the show," he said, "and would care to, I could take you round and introduce you to those two girls, the one who dances and Miss Bellairs."

"Miss Bellairs," d.i.c.k repeated stupidly, his mind was grappling with a far bigger problem than young Swetenham could guess at.

"Yes," the other answered, "I met her last time she was down here, and the other is a great pal of hers."

He looked sideways at his companion as they went in under the lights; it occurred to him that Grant was either in a bad temper or had a headache, he looked anyway not in the least jovial. Swetenham almost regretted his rash invitation.

"Thank you," d.i.c.k was saying, speaking almost mechanically, "I should like to come very much. It doesn't in the least matter about getting home."

Swetenham glanced at him again. "If it comes to that," he said, "I have a motor-bike I could run you in on."

The fellow, it suddenly dawned on him, had gone clean off his head about one of the girls. Swetenham could understand and sympathize with him in that.

d.i.c.k managed to convey the information that he was staying on to Mabel during the third act. She looked a little astonished; d.i.c.k, in the old days, had been so scornful about young men's stage amus.e.m.e.nts. Anyway, it did not affect the party very much, for Mrs. Grant and Mr. Jarvis had already gone home, and Mabel was giving Dr. English a lift.

"Shall I send the motor back for you?" she asked, just as they moved away.

d.i.c.k shook his head. "Swetenham is going to give me a lift out," he answered her, and Dr. English chuckled an explanation as they rolled away.

"What it is to be young, eh, Mrs. Jarvis? One can find beauty even in the chorus of a travelling company."

But was that the explanation? Mabel wondered. d.i.c.k's face had not looked as if he had found anything beautiful in the performance.

Swetenham and d.i.c.k made their way round to the side entrance of the town hall which acted as stage door on these occasions, after they had seen the rest of the party off, and Swetenham found someone to take his card up to Miss Bellairs.

"We might take them out to supper at the 'Grand,'" he suggested, as they waited about for the answer. "I don't know about the new girl, but Miss Bellairs is always good fun."

"Yes," agreed d.i.c.k half-heartedly. He was already regretting the impulse which had made him come. What should he do, or how feel or act, when he really met Joan face to face? His throat seemed ridiculously dry, and he was conscious of a hot sense of nervousness all over him which made the atmosphere of the night very oppressive. The boy who had run up with Swetenham's card came back presently with a message.

"Would the gentlemen come upstairs, Miss Bellairs was just taking off her make-up."

"Come on," Swetenham whispered to d.i.c.k; "f.a.n.n.y is a caution, she doesn't mind a bit what sort of state you see her in."

The boy led them up the stairs, through a small door and across what was evidently the back of the stage. At the foot of some steps on the further side he came to pause outside a door on which he knocked violently.

"Come in," f.a.n.n.y's voice shrilled from inside; "don't mind us."

The boy with a grin threw the door open and indicated with his thumb that Swetenham and d.i.c.k might advance. He winked at them as they pa.s.sed him, a fund of malignant impudence in his eyes. The room inside was small and scattered with a profusion of clothes. f.a.n.n.y, attired in a long silk dressing wrap, sat on a low chair by the only table, very busy with a grease-pot and a soft rag removing the paint from her face. She turned to smile at Swetenham and held out her hand to d.i.c.k when he was introduced with a disarming air of absolute frankness.

"You catch me not looking my best," she acknowledged; "just take a seat, dears; I'll be as beautiful as ever in a jiffy."

Joan--d.i.c.k's eyes found her at once--was standing in a corner of the room behind the door. She had changed into a blouse and skirt, but the change had evidently only just been completed. The fluffy flounces of her dancing skirt lay on the ground beside her and the make-up was still on her face. At this close range it gave her eyes a curiously beautiful appearance--the heavy lashes, the dark-smudged shadows, adding to their size and brilliancy. She did not come forward to greet the two men, but she lifted those strange eyes and returned d.i.c.k's glance with a stare in which defiance and a rather hurt self-consciousness were oddly mixed.

The tumult of anger and regret which had surged up in his heart as he had watched her dance died away as he looked at her; pity, and an intense desire to shield her, took its place. He moved forward impulsively, and f.a.n.n.y, noticing the movement, turned with a little laugh.

"I had forgotten," she said; "my manners are perfectly scandalous. Joan, come out of your corner and be introduced. Mr. Swetenham is going to take us to supper at the 'Grand,' so he has just confided into my sh.e.l.l-like ear. I can do with a bit of supper, can't you?"

Joan dragged her eyes away from d.i.c.k. The painted lashes lay like stiff threads of black against her cheeks. "I don't think I will come," she answered. "I am tired to-night, f.a.n.n.y, and I shan't be amusing."

She turned away and reached up for her hat, which hung on a peg just above her head. "I think I would rather go straight home," she added.

f.a.n.n.y sprang to her feet and caught at her companion with impulsive hands, dragging her into the centre of the room.

"Nonsense," she said, "you want cheering up far more than I do. Here, gentlemen," she went on, "you perceive a young lady suffering from an attack of the blues. If you will wait two minutes I'll make her face respectable--doesn't do to shock Sevenoaks--and we will all go to supper. Meanwhile let me introduce you--Miss Rutherford, known in the company as Sylvia Leicester, the some dancer of the Brown show."

"If Miss Rutherford does not feel up to supper," d.i.c.k suggested--he wanted, if possible, to help the girl out of her difficulty; he realized that she did not want to come--"let us make it another night, or perhaps you could all come to lunch with me to-morrow?"

Again Joan had lifted her eyes and was watching him, but now the defiance was uppermost in her mind. His face, to begin with, had worried her; the faint hint of having seen him somewhere before had been perplexing. She always disliked the way f.a.n.n.y would welcome the most promiscuous acquaintances in their joint dressing-room at all times. She thought now that it must have been contempt which she had read in this man's eyes, and apart from their attraction--for in an indefinite way they had attracted her--the idea spurred her to instant rebellion.

"No, let's go to supper," she exclaimed; "f.a.n.n.y is quite right, I do want to be cheered up. Let's eat, drink, and be merry."

She turned rather feverishly and started rubbing the make-up off her face with f.a.n.n.y's rag. The other girl, meanwhile, slipped behind a curtain which hung across one side of the room and finished her dressing, carrying on an animated conversation with Swetenham all the time.

d.i.c.k drew a little closer to Joan. "Why do you come?" he asked. "You know you hate it and us."

Under the vanishing paint the colour flamed to Joan's face and died away-again. "Because I want to," she said; "and as for hating--you are wrong there; I don't hate anything or anyone, except, perhaps, myself."