Читать книгу Wakefield's Course - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 5

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A month before Wakefield sent the cable, he had not even known of the horse’s existence. He was entirely concerned with his determination to be interviewed by Ninian Fox—Fox of the Preyde, as he was generally called.

The Preyde Theatre was in one of the network of streets all of which seem eventually to lead into the Strand. It was small but not obscure, for its manager was enterprising and, while he often had failures, Ninian Fox occasionally produced a West End success. At this moment he was precariously recovering from two failures, one of them the translation of a macabre foreign play, the other an ambitious historical drama by a new author. He was consequently, so he said, almost bankrupt and was about to risk his all on another play by an unknown author.

He was sitting in his inner office drinking a glass of whiskey and soda and looking anxiously at the well-thumbed manuscript of the play on the desk before him while his secretary, a tiny, harassed-looking young woman with a remarkably intelligent face, scanned the letters she had just typed. The month was February. Mr. Fox stretched out his hand, took a vase of hyacinths and daffodils from the window-sill, and sniffed it.

“I’m half dead,” he remarked.

There was something effeminate in his way of doing this, but, in his tall angular frame and straight clear-cut profile, he was entirely masculine. He had a fine head covered with thick iron-grey hair, cold blue eyes and a smile that was consciously genial but without warmth.

Miss Waite was used to his saying he was half dead and waited politely to hear if he had anything more important to declare. He went on—“Unless I can get the right sort of young fellow to play Frederick, the thing’s a failure.”

Miss Waite already knew this. She said:

“There’s that boy I interviewed last week. He’s been here every day since. Had you perhaps better see him?”

“Do you think he might be possible?”

“He certainly would look the part. And he has a clever face, but he’s not had much experience.”

“You say he’s in the lobby?”

“Yes.”

“H’m. Well—bring him in.”

In the lobby Miss Waite found the young man walking nervously up and down. A young girl was sitting very upright on a small chair, by a small table, her handbag clasped tightly in her thin hands. She started and half rose when she saw Miss Waite.

“Does Mr. Fox want to see me?” she asked.

“Not yet. He wants to see the young man. What did you say your name is?” She turned from the girl’s tense pale face to his eager one.

“Whiteoak. Wakefield Whiteoak. I’m terribly anxious to play the part of Frederick. I’m sure I can do it. I feel that I am Frederick.”

Miss Waite had often heard this sort of thing from young actors and a look of pessimism on her small face chilled his warmth. But she said politely, “Please come this way. Mr. Fox is waiting.”

The young girl pressed forward.

“Do you think there’s any chance of his seeing me?”

“Not this morning.” Miss Waite’s voice was dry. Then something in the girl’s eyes touched her and she added, “I’ll find out if there’s any possibility and let you know.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

Young Wakefield Whiteoak threw her a swift look. It was not the first he had given her. He had even tried to talk to her but she had been too nervous and too shy for conversation with a stranger. But now she met his look that was so full of friendliness and admiration, and she smiled in return.

“Good luck,” she said.

Mr. Fox’s glance was appraising as he shook hands with Wakefield. He looked coldly pleased.

“Physically,” he said, “you are all right for the part. But so many young men are. What experience have you had?”

“Not a great deal. I still——”

“How could you have had much, at your age?” interrupted Mr. Fox impatiently, but with his genial smile. “Just tell me what parts you’ve played.”

“I’ve done the usual thing at the Dramatic School. I played Romeo with a company in Cornwall last summer. And I played the tutor in A Month in the Country at the Portal Theatre.”

“Quite a good beginning! You come from Canada?”

“Yes.”

“You have an interesting accent. How did you come by it?”

“As a child I lived in the house with my uncles, who were educated at Oxford, and my grandmother, who was an Irishwoman. I was educated by a clergyman but I have got something from my brother and guardian, who is a horse-breeder.”

Mr. Fox looked at him sharply. Was the young fellow being humorous? No, he was quite serious and evidently certain that any details concerning himself would be interesting.

“H’m, well—Miss Waite, will you please give Mr. Whiteoak Frederick’s part? Let him read the bit where he discovers his sister’s relations with Ransome.” To Wakefield he remarked—“This is a very fine play but it’s a terrible risk for me. No one knows what a risk. I stand to make well out of it or be ruined. I can’t afford to pay much in the way of salary, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Wakefield sympathetically.

Mr. Fox’s brow cleared a little. Miss Waite handed Wakefield the typescript. She noticed how steady his hand was and how his gravity barely concealed a look of mischief.

“I think we’ll go on to the stage,” interrupted Mr. Fox. “I think both producer and author are in the theatre. We might as well have their opinion.”

He finished his whiskey and soda with a sigh, bent to smell his hyacinths, then led the way in a measured walk. Just as Miss Waite and Wakefield passed through the door the telephone rang and she darted back to answer it. Mr. Fox, with an irritated frown, stopped and stared at the young girl who waited in the lobby. He remarked:

“The telephone is a nuisance. It provides ceaseless interruptions and little convenience. Were you waiting to see me, my dear?”

The young girl had already sprung to her feet.

“Yes—Yes—please, I should very much like to see you. I mean I want terribly to do the part of Catherine. I’ve had quite a lot of experience. If you’d just give me——”

Mr. Fox interrupted testily—“I’ve all but engaged Geraldine Bland for the part. I’m sorry, my dear. Perhaps in some other play I might use you. I like your looks. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“And your name?”

“Molly Griffith.”

She spoke almost breathlessly in her eagerness. She was tall, thin, and very fair. The fineness of the bones of her face was visible because of her thinness, which approached emaciation, but her profile had a daring tilt, and her thick hair and the scatter of bronze-coloured freckles on her nose gave her a look of boyish virility.

Miss Waite appeared from the lobby. Mr. Fox at once approached her and they whispered together.

“It’s that Geraldine Bland,” she said. “She doesn’t like the part now that she’s read it carefully. There isn’t enough in it for her, she says.”

“Damn her,” said Mr. Fox. “She seemed keen enough when I interviewed her. Damn her, and her pretensions. Take a look at this girl. Do you think she looks the part? I do. And she’s a lady,—much as I hate to use the word,—which Geraldine Thingumbob isn’t.”

“I like her looks,” said Miss Waite. “And after all, the part of Catherine isn’t frightfully important. I dare say we could get this girl for even less salary.”

Mr. Fox turned briskly back to Wakefield and the girl, who stood holding themselves meekly, in readiness for his commands.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “things have turned out fortunately for you. I’ve just had a message from Miss Bland. She tells me that she has had another part offered her which is more in her line. I myself wasn’t quite satisfied with her, so I’ll give you an audition, if you’ll come along with us. You and this young man can try that bit together—where Frederick discovers his sister’s affair. You should look very well together.”

Cheerfully he led the way through the darkened theatre, along the aisle to some shallow steps which mounted to a doorway. Beyond it was back-stage confusion, men working with ropes, lights, and props. There was pulling about and hammering, of an apparently senseless nature. Wakefield could see the girl’s jaw set, in an effort to control her excitement.

“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

“If only I thought so!” she breathed. “But so much depends on my getting this job. I’ve had nothing for months.”

In the hard light he discovered the shabbiness of her clothes, the sharpness of her features. With a pang he thought—“She looks half fed. When this is over I’ll ask her to lunch.” He whispered—“We’ll get the job. You’ll see.”

Mr. Fox’s progress was slow. Everybody wanted to ask him something. He answered all these with a pained look, as though he were convinced that the questioner was out to rob and cheat him. His ascetic profile was outlined against the dark green of a screen, but his protruding corporation disclosed his fleshly tastes.

A short man, with dark hair curling about a bald spot, and a top-coat that reached almost to his heels, was talking to a man with sandy hair and a cigarette between his lips. They were Robert Fielding, actor and producer, and George Trimble, journalist and author of the play.

Finally, Mr. Fox led the two young people to them. He said, after a formal introduction—“I want you to hear these two read a scene from the play. I want you to see what you think of them for the parts of Frederick and Catherine. I’ve had so many disappointments about these parts that I’m at my wit’s end and willing to try anyone.”

The boy and girl stood, meek and untried, looking the personification of youth and biddableness. Mr. Fielding gave them a kindly, yet pessimistic look. The author’s face was a blank.

Fielding said—“Well, it’s time we got things settled. The principals are getting uneasy. They want their salaries and the rehearsals to begin.”

Mr. Fox groaned, as though in pain.

The author lighted a fresh cigarette from the stump of the last. Miss Waite handed some sheets of typescript to Wakefield and Molly Griffith.

“Just read those as naturally as you can,” said Mr. Fox.

He, the producer, and the author descended into the stalls. Miss Waite retired to the wings. One of the workmen began loudly to hammer on metal behind the scenes.

“Stop that noise!” ordered Mr. Fox.

Miss Waite appeared and disappeared. They had one glimpse of her clever, wizened face distorted by worry. Then the noise ceased.

Wakefield and the girl stood awkwardly side by side on the stage.

“This is poisonous,” Wakefield said, under his breath.

“Yes,” she returned. “Having to do it together, you mean.”

“Well, I’m terribly afraid I shall spoil your chances.”

“I guess that we’ll stand or fall together, but my nerves are a curse.”

It was true that she was shaking all over. He wondered how she would be able to make out the words on the paper that trembled in her hand. He was self-possessed on the surface but apprehensive underneath. He found the place marked by Miss Waite. The scene they had before them concerned the discovery by a youth that the sister he idealised was no better than the mother he hated. The principal part, that of the mother, was to be taken by a well-known middle-aged actress who dominated the entire play.

“Begin,” said Mr. Fox.

“ ‘Oh, Frederick,’ ” the girl got out, in a small voice, “ ‘don’t look like that!’ ”

“ ‘Don’t look like what, Cathie?’ ” Wakefield’s voice had a tremor of emotion in it.

“ ‘As though you’d never seen me before. As though I were a kind of frightening stranger.’ ”

“ ‘You are a stranger, Cathie.’ ”

“ ‘No, no—I won’t have you say that! I’m not a stranger! I’m just the same—only——’ ”

“ ‘I know. Don’t explain. You’re like Mother.’ ”

“ ‘I’m not! I’m not! This is different!’ ”

Mr. Fox interrupted from the stalls. “Young lady! Unless you can raise your voice and speak more distinctly, there is no object in our going any further with this.”

“Yes, Mr. Fox. I’ll try.”

“Please begin the scene again.”

The manager’s shoulders and head rose imposing in the stalls. The producer slumped in his greatcoat that was too large for him. The author sat tense, his chin on his clenched hands, his sandy hair almost in his eyes. Several scenes were tried. Then, with a wave of dismissal to the young actors, Mr. Fox turned to his companions.

“Well, what do you think?”

“They might do,” said Robert Fielding warily. “What do you think yourself?”

“The girl will never be really good unless we can hammer some emotion into her. But she looks the part and has a lovely voice. The boy has good stuff in him. And, with his looks, I’ll wager he’ll end on the screen. What do you think, Mr. Trimble?”

“I think they’re perfect,” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

As he had been far from enthusiastic about the casting of the play so far, even to the choice of Robert Fielding for the comic part, Mr. Fox was surprised. He was one of the few London managers with whom the opinion of the author carried weight.

“Perfect!” he repeated. “This is surprising from you.”

“What I mean is, they’re convincing. They’re just fumbling with their parts, of course, but they look real—authentic. I feel that, if we searched London over, we couldn’t find a better Frederick and Cathie.”

“I don’t see it,” put in Fielding, “but I think we might do worse than try them.”

“I’ve reached the end of my tether,” said Mr. Fox. “I can’t struggle any more over the casting of this play. I’ll take these two on if you want me to, but as I’ve said before, it’s a play that, if not perfectly cast, can never be anything but a failure.”

This was the only remark in the nature of a compliment which he ever paid to the play. A flicker of gratitude passed over the author’s face. He said:

“I don’t believe we can make a mistake in engaging these two.”

“And, after all, they’re minor parts,” said Fielding.

“There are no unimportant parts in the play,” said Mr. Fox.

“Well,” said Fielding, “we might have had Clive Rogers and Peggy Ardale.”

“At ruinous salaries,” snapped Mr. Fox.

He rose irritably and moved, with his slightly pompous gait, toward the stage.

“He’s a mean old dog,” said Fielding. “He’ll offer those poor kids starvation salaries and they’ll jump at the offer.”

Trimble looked worried. “A damned shame!”

“I could never manage if I didn’t both act and produce. I’ve somehow got on with him through a good many productions.”

“He’s taking them into his office. I wonder when we shall have a rehearsal.”

“In a few days, I hope.”

Wakefield and Molly Griffith looked into each other’s eyes and laughed as they passed through the stage door of the Preyde Theatre on to the pavement.

“Isn’t it grand,” he exclaimed, “that we’re both taken on?”

“Yes. I am glad. I’m so nervous and you’re not a bit. I think you’re going to be splendid as Frederick.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary the way we’ve just hopped into the theatre, hopped into two good parts and hopped out again—hand in hand—like two old friends?” He caught her hand in his.

“We sound rather like frogs—all that hopping, I mean.”

“Will you have some lunch with me? I know of a nice place. We’ll talk over our parts.”

“I’d love to.”

“We’ll tell each other about our pasts and boast about our futures.” He hailed a passing taxi.

“Why—you’re not taking a taxi, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Goodness—you’re affluent.”

“I’m the sort who would spend his last shilling on a taxi.”

“Please don’t. I’m terribly hungry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve just got my allowance from home.”

They were in the taxi-cab.

He examined her profile outlined against the window. “How happy you look since we’ve got these jobs.”

“It means a lot to me. I’d have had to go home—otherwise.”

“Where is home?”

“Wales.”

“Wales! I’ve never been there.”

“Where is your home?”

“Canada. But my mother was a Londoner.”

“Haven’t you any relatives over here?”

“I’ve cousins in Ireland. I’m part Irish. And I’ve a brother in London. I live with him.”

“Is he like you?”

“Not a bit. He’s a pianist. Let’s talk about the play.”

They did, and were so absorbed that they were surprised to find themselves at their destination. She looked up at the sign over the door.

“L’Écu de France! How grand you are! I thought it would be—no, I won’t say that.”

“An A.B.C.! I’ll bet that’s the impression I gave you.” He paid the driver.

She coloured. Then she gave a happy little laugh. “This is my lucky day.”

They put their heads together over the menu. “I like everything.” She folded her hands in her lap, like a well-behaved little girl, and gazed at the people at near-by tables. The order was given and they broke the crusty rolls and ate them while they waited. A bottle of white wine appeared, with the sole.

“We must drink,” said Wakefield, “to the success of the play and to our friendship.”

They touched glasses and their eyes met in a look in which he revealed the warmth and self-confidence of his nature and his sensitive, yet resilient egotism, and she nothing but a girl’s interest in the male, and her pleasure in the moment.

She ate more than Wakefield did. In truth she seemed so hungry that he judged that she had been cooking her own meals over a gas-ring and not spending a penny more than necessary on them. She wore her clothes well and he liked that. He quite probably would not have invited her to lunch had she not. He noticed that other men were looking at her. He noticed the lovely curve of her short upper lip that was oddly combined with a look of physical courage.

They talked of the play and their parts in it. They poured out confidences of their professional past. If he had been an actor grown old in the profession he could scarcely have seemed to have had greater experience. She drank in every word.

Over coffee he said—“It’s a wonder your family would let you come so far from home alone.”

She stared. “Why not? I’ve been acting since I was sixteen. I’m able to take care of myself. I’ve been in London a year.”

“And we’ve never met till to-day! What a waste of time.”

“I’m glad.”

“Why?”

“Because to-day wouldn’t have been such a nice surprise.”

“I do think that was a charming thing to say. Molly—Molly Griffith. I like your name. I’ll bet your parents are proud of you.”

“My mother’s dead. I don’t think my father is particularly proud of me.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s not that sort.”

Wakefield considered this and took an instant dislike to Mr. Griffith.

“Have you brothers and sisters?” he asked.

“A brother and three sisters.”

“Four girls! What a lot! Do you get on well together?”

“Yes ... not always.”

“And your brother? What about him?”

“He’s a darling. I love him better than anyone else in the world.” Her face flushed and she tapped with her finger-tips on the table. She added—“We’re awfully poor.”

“The Welsh generally are. But they are recompensed by being picturesque and musical, aren’t they?”

She considered this gravely. “I think my family is rather picturesque. At any rate the place we live in is. But we’re not musical. One of my sisters paints. I don’t know how good her pictures are. She’s never had any lessons.” She was disinclined to say anything more of her family and asked him about his.

“My mother is dead too. Also my father. I was a posthumous child. My eldest brother and my sister brought me up—with help from my grandmother, my aunt, and my two uncles.”

“That partly explains you.”

“How?”

“You’re so well-brought-up.”

“Am I?”

“What I mean is, you seem as though you’d been the centre of a lot of attention.”

Wakefield’s face lighted in mischief.

“I wish you could have seen them about me, when I was a kid. I had them all going. There was Grandmother, nearly a hundred. She was a bit fierce but really full of love. There was Aunt Augusta, dignity personified, haughty and covered with bracelets and brooches, but with a heart of gold. There was Uncle Nicholas, a grand-looking old fellow, with a lot of grey hair and a drooping moustache. When I was on his shoulder I felt as though nothing in the world could hurt me. Then Uncle Ernest, very careful of my manners, very fastidious about his person, very much absorbed in the family. My eldest brother, Renny—he’s been a father to me. He breeds horses. You ought to see him ride. He’s married now and has two children. Then there’s Piers, my next brother. He farms and helps Renny with the horses. The brother next me is Finch, who is here in London. My only sister is married and lives next door to us.”

“What a family! Are all living?”

“Gran and Aunt Augusta are dead, and one of my brothers—Eden.”

“Funny. You have three brothers and a sister and I have three sisters and a brother.”

“Tell me about them.”

She frowned a little. “Some other time. Just now I want only to enjoy myself.”

Her family must be different from his, Wakefield thought, for it was always a pleasure to him to talk of his family. She was a good listener and the time went quickly as he poured out stories of the idiosyncrasies of his kin. She exclaimed—“I can just see that house and those people! You’re such a good one at describing.”

“You must come out some time and visit us. They’d make you very welcome. Supposing the play is a great success! I’ll tell you what will happen. It will go to New York. They’ll take us too and, at the end of the run, we’ll go to Canada and visit Jalna.”

“If only we could!”

“I’m a prophet. I feel it in my bones.”

They exchanged a look of happy expectancy.