When Sally left Detroit on the following Saturday, accompanied byFillmore, who was returning to the metropolis for a few days in order tosecure offices and generally make his presence felt along Broadway, herspirits had completely recovered. She felt guiltily that she had beenfanciful, even morbid. Naturally men wanted to get on in the world. Itwas their job. She told herself that she was bound up with Gerald'ssuccess, and that the last thing of which she ought to complain was theenergy he put into efforts of which she as well as he would reap thereward.
To this happier frame of mind the excitement of the last few days hadcontributed. Detroit, that city of amiable audiences, had liked "ThePrimrose Way." The theatre, in fulfilment of Teddy's prophecy, had beenallowed to open on the Tuesday, and a full house, hungry forentertainment after its enforced abstinence, had welcomed the playwholeheartedly. The papers, not always in agreement with the applauseof a first-night audience, had on this occasion endorsed the verdict,with agreeable unanimity hailing Gerald as the coming author and ElsaDoland as the coming star. There had even been a brief mention ofFillmore as the coming manager. But there is always some trifle thatjars in our greatest moments, and Fillmore's triumph had been almostspoilt by the fact that the only notice taken of Gladys Winch was by thecritic who printed her name--spelt Wunch--in the list of those whom thecast "also included.""One of the greatest character actresses on the stage," said Fillmorebitterly, talking over this outrage with Sally on the morning after theproduction.
From this blow, however, his buoyant nature had soon enabled him torally. Life contained so much that was bright that it would have beenchurlish to concentrate the attention on the one dark spot. Business hadbeen excellent all through the week. Elsa Doland had got better at everyperformance. The receipt of a long and agitated telegram from Mr.
Cracknell, pleading to be allowed to buy the piece back, the passage oftime having apparently softened Miss Hobson, was a pleasant incident.
And, best of all, the great Ike Schumann, who owned half the theatres inNew York and had been in Detroit superintending one of his musicalproductions, had looked in one evening and stamped "The Primrose Way"with the seal of his approval. As Fillmore sat opposite Sally on thetrain, he radiated contentment and importance.
"Yes, do," said Sally, breaking a long silence.
Fillmore awoke from happy dreams.
"Eh?""I said 'Yes, do.' I think you owe it to your position.""Do what?""Buy a fur coat. Wasn't that what you were meditating about?""Don't be a chump," said Fillmore, blushing nevertheless. It was truethat once or twice during the past week he had toyed negligently, as Mr.
Bunbury would have said, with the notion, and why not? A fellow mustkeep warm.
"With an astrakhan collar," insisted Sally.
"As a matter of fact," said Fillmore loftily, his great soul ill-attunedto this badinage, "what I was really thinking about at the moment wassomething Ike said.""Ike?""Ike Schumann. He's on the train. I met him just now.""We call him Ike!""Of course I call him Ike," said Fillmore heatedly. "Everyone callshim Ike.""He wears a fur coat," Sally murmured.
Fillmore registered annoyance.
"I wish you wouldn't keep on harping on that damned coat. And, anyway,why shouldn't I have a fur coat?""Fill... ! How can you be so brutal as to suggest that I ever said youshouldn't? Why, I'm one of the strongest supporters of the fur coat.
With big cuffs. And you must roll up Fifth Avenue in your car, and I'llpoint and say 'That's my brother!' 'Your brother? No!' 'He is, really.'
'You're joking. Why, that's the great Fillmore Nicholas.' 'I know. Buthe really is my brother. And I was with him when he bought that coat.'""Do leave off about the coat!""'And it isn't only the coat,' I shall say. 'It's what's underneath.
Tucked away inside that mass of fur, dodging about behind that dollarcigar, is one to whom we point with pride... '"Fillmore looked coldly at his watch.
"I've got to go and see Ike Schumann.""We are in hourly consultation with Ike.""He wants to see me about the show. He suggests putting it into Chicagobefore opening in New York.""Oh no," cried Sally, dismayed.
"Why not?"Sally recovered herself. Identifying Gerald so closely with his play,she had supposed for a moment that if the piece opened in Chicago itwould mean a further prolonged separation from him. But of course therewould be no need, she realized, for him to stay with the company afterthe first day or two.
"You're thinking that we ought to have a New York reputation beforetackling Chicago. There's a lot to be said for that. Still, it worksboth ways. A Chicago run would help us in New York. Well, I'll have tothink it over," said Fillmore, importantly, "I'll have to think itover."He mused with drawn brows.
"All wrong," said Sally.
"Eh?""Not a bit like it. The lips should be compressed and the forefinger ofthe right hand laid in a careworn way against the right temple. You've alot to learn. Fill.""Oh, stop it!""Fillmore Nicholas," said Sally, "if you knew what pain it gives me tojosh my only brother, you'd be sorry for me. But you know it's for yourgood. Now run along and put Ike out of his misery. I know he's waitingfor you with his watch out. 'You do think he'll come, Miss Nicholas?'
were his last words to me as he stepped on the train, and oh, Fill, theyearning in his voice. 'Why, of course he will, Mr. Schumann,' I said.
'For all his exalted position, my brother is kindliness itself. Ofcourse he'll come.' 'If I could only think so!' he said with a gulp. 'IfI could only think so. But you know what these managers are. A thousandcalls on their time. They get brooding on their fur coats and forgeteverything else.' 'Have no fear, Mr. Schumann,' I said. 'FillmoreNicholas is a man of his word.'"She would have been willing, for she was a girl who never believed insparing herself where it was a question of entertaining her nearest anddearest, to continue the dialogue, but Fillmore was already moving downthe car, his rigid back a silent protest against sisterly levity. Sallywatched him disappear, then picked up a magazine and began to read.
She had just finished tracking a story of gripping interest through ajungle of advertisements, only to find that it was in two parts, ofwhich the one she was reading was the first, when a voice spoke.
"How do you do, Miss Nicholas?"Into the seat before her, recently released from the weight of thecoming manager, Bruce Carmyle of all people in the world insinuatedhimself with that well-bred air of deferential restraint which neverleft him.
Sally was considerably startled. Everybody travels nowadays, ofcourse, and there is nothing really remarkable in finding a man inAmerica whom you had supposed to be in Europe: but nevertheless she wasconscious of a dream-like sensation, as though the clock had been turnedback and a chapter of her life reopened which she had thought closed forever.
"Mr. Carmyle!" she cried.
If Sally had been constantly in Bruce Carmyle's thoughts since they hadparted on the Paris express, Mr. Carmyle had been very little inSally's--so little, indeed, that she had had to search her memory for amoment before she identified him.
"We're always meeting on trains, aren't we?" she went on, her composurereturning. "I never expected to see you in America.""I came over."Sally was tempted to reply that she gathered that, but a suddenembarrassment curbed her tongue. She had just remembered that at theirlast meeting she had been abominably rude to this man. She was neverrude to anyone, without subsequent remorse. She contented herself with atame "Yes.""Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, "it is a good many years since I have taken areal holiday. My doctor seemed to think I was a trifle run down. Itseemed a good opportunity to visit America. Everybody," said Mr. Carmyleoracularly, endeavouring, as he had often done since his ship had leftEngland, to persuade himself that his object in making the trip had notbeen merely to renew his acquaintance with Sally, "everybody ought tovisit America at least once. It is part of one's education.""And what are your impressions of our glorious country?" said Sallyrallying.
Mr. Carmyle seemed glad of the opportunity of lecturing on an impersonalsubject. He, too, though his face had shown no trace of it, had beenembarrassed in the opening stages of the conversation. The sound of hisvoice restored him.
"I have been visiting Chicago," he said after a brief travelogue.
"Oh!""A wonderful city.""I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit.""Yes, I heard you were in Detroit."Sally's eyes opened.
"You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?""I--ah--called at your New York address and made inquiries," said Mr.
Carmyle a little awkwardly.
"But how did you know where I lived?""My cousin--er--Lancelot told me."Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comesto the man in the detective story who realizes that he is beingshadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually cometo America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the factthat he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It wasa compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. BruceCarmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find thatshe was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mentionof Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present toointimate course.
"How is Mr. Kemp?" she asked.
Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker.
"We have had no news of him," he said shortly.
"No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared.""He has disappeared!""Good heavens! When?""Shortly after I saw you last.""Disappeared!"Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirringagain. There was something about this man which she had dislikedinstinctively from the first, a sort of hardness.
"But where has he gone to?""I don't know." Mr. Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger wasplainly a sore one. "And I don't want to know," he went on heatedly, adull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shavetwice a day. "I don't care to know. The Family have washed their handsof him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. Ibelieve he is off his head."Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down.
She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle--it was odd,she felt, how she seemed to have constituted herself Ginger's championand protector--but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, tohear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured andconciliated.
"But what happened? What was all the trouble about?"Mr. Carmyle's eyebrows met.
"He--insulted his uncle. His uncle Donald. He insulted him--grossly.
The one man in the world he should have made a point of--er--""Keeping in with?""Yes. His future depended upon him.""But what did he do?" cried Sally, trying hard to keep a thoroughlyreprehensible joy out of her voice.
"I have heard no details. My uncle is reticent as to what actually tookplace. He invited Lancelot to dinner to discuss his plans, and itappears that Lancelot--defied him. Defied him! He was rude andinsulting. My uncle refuses to have anything more to do with him.
Apparently the young fool managed to win some money at the tables atRoville, and this seems to have turned his head completely. My uncleinsists that he is mad. I agree with him. Since the night of that dinnernothing has been heard of Lancelot."Mr. Carmyle broke off to brood once more, and before Sally could speakthe impressive bulk of Fillmore loomed up in the aisle beside them.
Explanations seemed to Fillmore to be in order. He cast a questioningglance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being inconversation with his sister, had collared his seat.
"Oh, hullo, Fill," said Sally. "Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We metabroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle."Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr.
Carmyle. His air of being someone in particular appealed to him.
"Strange you meeting again like this," he said affably.
The porter, who had been making up berths along the car, was nowhovering expectantly in the offing.
"You two had better go into the smoking room," suggested Sally. "I'mgoing to bed."She wanted to be alone, to think. Mr. Carmyle's tale of a roused andrevolting Ginger had stirred her.
The two men went off to the smoking-room, and Sally found an empty seatand sat down to wait for her berth to be made up. She was aglow with acurious exhilaration. So Ginger had taken her advice! Excellent Ginger!
She felt proud of him. She also had that feeling of complacency,amounting almost to sinful pride, which comes to those who give adviceand find it acted upon. She had the emotions of a creator. After all,had she not created this new Ginger? It was she who had stirred him up.
It was she who had unleashed him. She had changed him from a meekdependent of the Family to a ravening creature, who went about the placeinsulting uncles.
It was a feat, there was no denying it. It was something attempted,something done: and by all the rules laid down by the poet it should,therefore, have earned a night's repose. Yet, Sally, jolted by thetrain, which towards the small hours seemed to be trying out some newbuck-and-wing steps of its own invention, slept ill, and presently, asshe lay awake, there came to her bedside the Spectre of Doubt, gaunt andquestioning. Had she, after all, wrought so well? Had she been wise intampering with this young man's life?
"What about it?" said the Spectre of Doubt.
Daylight brought no comforting answer to the question. Breakfast failedto manufacture an easy mind. Sally got off the train, at the GrandCentral station in a state of remorseful concern. She declined the offerof Mr. Carmyle to drive her to the boarding-house, and started to walkthere, hoping that the crisp morning air would effect a cure.
She wondered now how she could ever have looked with approval on herrash act. She wondered what demon of interference and meddling hadpossessed her, to make her blunder into people's lives, upsetting them.
She wondered that she was allowed to go around loose. She was nothingmore nor less than a menace to society. Here was an estimable young man,obviously the sort of young man who would always have to be assistedthrough life by his relatives, and she had deliberately egged him on towreck his prospects. She blushed hotly as she remembered that madwireless she had sent him from the boat.
Miserable Ginger! She pictured him, his little stock of money gone,wandering foot-sore about London, seeking in vain for work; forcinghimself to call on Uncle Donald; being thrown down the front steps byhaughty footmen; sleeping on the Embankment; gazing into the dark watersof the Thames with the stare of hopelessness; climbing to the parapetand...
"Ugh!" said Sally.
She had arrived at the door of the boarding-house, and Mrs. Meecher wasregarding her with welcoming eyes, little knowing that to all practicalintents and purposes she had slain in his prime a red-headed young manof amiable manners and--when not ill-advised by meddling, muddlingfemales--of excellent behaviour.
Mrs. Meecher was friendly and garrulous. Variety, the journal which,next to the dog Toto, was the thing she loved best in the world, hadinformed her on the Friday morning that Mr. Foster's play had got overbig in Detroit, and that Miss Doland had made every kind of hit. It wasnot often that the old alumni of the boarding-house forced their wayafter this fashion into the Hall of Fame, and, according to Mrs.
Meecher, the establishment was ringing with the news. That blue ribbonround Toto's neck was worn in honour of the triumph. There was also,though you could not see it, a chicken dinner in Toto's interior, by wayof further celebration.
And was it true that Mr. Fillmore had bought the piece? A great man, wasMrs. Meecher's verdict. Mr. Faucitt had always said so...
"Oh, how is Mr. Faucitt?" Sally asked, reproaching herself for havingallowed the pressure of other matters to drive all thoughts of her latepatient from her mind.
"He's gone," said Mrs. Meecher with such relish that to Sally, in hermorbid condition, the words had only one meaning. She turned white andclutched at the banisters.
"Gone!""To England," added Mrs. Meecher. Sally was vastly relieved.
"Oh, I thought you meant...""Oh no, not that." Mrs. Meecher sighed, for she had been a littledisappointed in the old gentleman, who started out as such a promisinginvalid, only to fall away into the dullness of robust health once more.
"He's well enough. I never seen anybody better. You'd think," said Mrs.
Meecher, bearing bearing up with difficulty under her grievance, "you'dthink this here new Spanish influenza was a sort of a tonic or somep'n,the way he looks now. Of course," she added, trying to findjustification for a respected lodger, "he's had good news. His brother'sdead.""What!""Not, I don't mean, that that was good news, far from it, though, cometo think of it, all flesh is as grass and we all got to be prepared forsomep'n of the sort breaking loose...but it seems this here new brother ofhis--I didn't know he'd a brother, and I don't suppose you knew he had abrother. Men are secretive, ain't they!--this brother of his has lefthim a parcel of money, and Mr. Faucitt he had to get on the Wednesdayboat quick as he could and go right over to the other side to look afterthings. Wind up the estate, I believe they call it. Left in a awfulhurry, he did. Sent his love to you and said he'd write. Funny himhaving a brother, now, wasn't it? Not," said Mrs. Meecher, at heart areasonable woman, "that folks don't have brothers. I got two myself, onein Portland, Oregon, and the other goodness knows where he is. But whatI'm trying to say..."Sally disengaged herself, and went up to her room. For a brief whilethe excitement which comes of hearing good news about those of whom weare fond acted as a stimulant, and she felt almost cheerful. Dear oldMr. Faucitt. She was sorry for his brother, of course, though she hadnever had the pleasure of his acquaintance and had only just heard thathe had ever existed; but it was nice to think that her old friend'sremaining years would be years of affluence.
Presently, however, she found her thoughts wandering back into theirmelancholy groove. She threw herself wearily on the bed. She was tiredafter her bad night.
But she could not sleep. Remorse kept her awake. Besides, she couldhear Mrs. Meecher prowling disturbingly about the house, apparently insearch of someone, her progress indicated by creaking boards and thestrenuous yapping of Toto.
Sally turned restlessly, and, having turned remained for a long instanttransfixed and rigid. She had seen something, and what she had seen wasenough to surprise any girl in the privacy of her bedroom. Fromunderneath the bed there peeped coyly forth an undeniably masculine shoeand six inches of a grey trouser-leg.
Sally bounded to the floor. She was a girl of courage, and she meant toprobe this matter thoroughly.
"What are you doing under my bed?"The question was a reasonable one, and evidently seemed to the intruderto deserve an answer. There was a muffled sneeze, and he began to crawlout.
The shoe came first. Then the legs. Then a sturdy body in a dustycoat. And finally there flashed on Sally's fascinated gaze a head of sonearly the maximum redness that it could only belong to one person inthe world.
"Ginger!"Mr. Lancelot Kemp, on all fours, blinked up at her.
"Oh, hullo!" he said.
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