CHAPTER VIII
A SUDDEN expectant movement on the part of the head waiter and a rapid pattering of his fat little feet drew several pairs of eyes, including Bellsmith's, to the door of the dining-room, where a girl in a gray dress and hat with high cheek-bones and masses of straw blonde hair had appeared, looking over the room.
Bellsmith called his companion's attention. "Isn't that one of—one of your friends in the doorway!"
Miss Marshall glanced around indifferently.
"Yes," she said, without interest; "Elsie Winner."
She turned, unconcerned, back to the table, but her one look had been enough to establish a connection. Instantly the face of the girl in the doorway lightened and she came toward them, the head waiter, beaming and fatherly, in her train. Any one remotely connected with Bellsmith had his entire devotion this evening. Poor Jules, or Jacques, or whatever his name might have been! Like most of us he lived daily in the vain hope of reanimating the past.
If Miss Marshall, however, had been indifferent to the new-comer in the abstract, she was cordial enough as the girl reached the table. "Hello!" she said brightly. "Looking for me?"
The other girl laughed. "No," she replied, "I just came down to ask you how to spell 'Newark,'"
Miss Marshall, unlike most imperious tempers, was at least a good loser, and she joined in the laugh.
"Sit down, Elsie," she said, "and we 'll tell sad stories of the death of kings. Mr. Bellsmith, Miss Winner."
Bellsmith had been standing, very erect and self-conscious under the eyes of the dining-room. He acknowledged the introduction with a formal nod, while Miss Winner took him in with a swift, appraising glance not unlike that of the chorus girl on the circular stairway—a look which lost no detail yet was not unfriendly. Jules or Jacques, meantime, was eagerly holding a chair just behind her knees so that, if she should happen to unbend in the least degree, behold! she would find herself seated. Surely a head waiter could do no more.
Without much attention however to either of them, Miss Winner turned swiftly to Tilly Marshall.
"No, thank you, Tilly," she continued hurriedly. "I can't sit down. I was sent to look for you. Tommy Knight's giving a birthday party. Hadn't you heard about it?"
"No," answered Miss Marshall eagerly, "I hadn't heard a thing."
Without knowing why, Bellsmith knew this to be a lie; but apparently it deceived Miss Winner, for she continued with the forced and unconvincing enthusiasm that precedes every party for persons over twelve. "The whole bunch are there, but they didn't want to begin without you. They 've been looking everywhere for you. There are—shall I say—distilled spirits?"
Miss Marshall smiled. "Naturally. I can't somehow picture Tommy Knight celebrating a birthday party with lady fingers. Where is it?"
"In a private dining-room," prattled on Miss Winner, more and more the eager but consciously hollow promoter of gaiety. "Can't you come somehow? They 're waiting for you."
Bellsmith interposed politely. "By all means," he said, "if you want to go, don't let me—"
But both girls objected at once. "Oh, you must come too," begged Miss Winner. "The more the merrier."
Miss Marshall looked up at him in lazy speculation, as if it had been for years an understood thing that they should spend all their spare time together. "Do you feel like going?" she asked.
"Just as you say," insisted Bellsmith, with the perfect neutrality which the scene demanded.
"All right, then," said Miss Marshall, gathering her gloves. "Let's on."
Then quickly she remembered the supper which they had just begun and pointed to the plates before them.
"Are there certain attendant ceremonies—?" she began, but Jules, who had been standing six feet away, quivering like a jack-rabbit in his eagerness, took in the situation instantly and leaped to brush aside any potential check.
"Oh! that's all right, Mr. Bellsmith," he urged. "Never mind that!"
Miss Marshall rose and the three turned to go, while Jules purred over them all.
"Shall I sign for you?" he suggested.
"Will you, please?" asked Bellsmith, absently.
It was one of the few things that he had said naturally and unconsciously all the evening, and again there was something in his tone that made Miss Marshall turn cautiously and study him keenly; but she said nothing and, with an advance-guard of Miss Winner and a rear-guard of Jules, each equally pleased with the mission, they left the dining-room.
At the doorway, nevertheless, Miss Marshall held back and drew closer to Bellsmith.
"I hope," she said in a low voice, "that I haven't dragged you into anything that you did n't want to do. I did n't want to go a bit, myself, but, honestly, I did n't like to offend them."
"Oh, not at all," Bellsmith assured her. "I'd really like to go. Of course—" But at the same instant their eyes met, and in the girl's eyes was a flickering, unabashed humor. Neither said any more.
Behind their guide, Miss Winner, they crowded into the little, old-fashioned elevator. The boy in charge pulled down some six or eight yards of rope, before the thing would start at all. Then, imperceptibly, they rose in the brass-grilled cage, giving the traveling men in the lobby a prolonged, interminable look at their knees and feet as they were slowly absorbed into the ceiling. Up one story they halted opposite a wooden door, which the boy threw open grandly.
"Sss-ecund floor!" he shouted, as if there had been a dozen of them there in the elevator, all bound for different terminals.
With the sure air of one on familiar ground. Miss Winner went padding down the carpeted hall, which was lighted largely by red fire-lamps, followed by Miss Marshall and Bellsmith, both drawing slightly together and both feeling a little like naughty children on an illicit errand. There is nothing like an old-fashioned hotel to give this feeling. In the distance a chambermaid vanished around a corner. Odd, thought Bellsmith, that one never meets a chambermaid coming. They are always just vanishing at the end of the hall.
At a door with brass numerals nailed to the panels Miss Winner knocked softly. From within, a dim murmur of voices could be heard, interrupted occasionally by a shout of laughter, but, over their heads, the wooden transom was closed and no streaks of light came out around it. Miss Marshall and Bellsmith had now overtaken their guide, and the three stood waiting in the half darkness, in what was, again, a ridiculous, child-like silence.
Miss Winner repeated her knock more imperiously and a voice inside could be heard shouting, "Hey, there! There's somebody at the door!"
Instantly the voices were silent. The door was opened cautiously for two inches, then, with a shout, flung wide open, and they entered the room.
It was Tommy Knight, in lavender shirt-sleeves, with a bartender's apron tied over his chest, who had admitted them. As if he had seen neither of the girls for weeks he cordially shook hands with each of them in turn. "Good work, Winnie! Oh, hello, Miss Marshall! So they found you, did they! Come on in. Come in."
As Miss Marshall passed in, she turned to introduce Bellsmith.
"Mr. Knight, Mr. Bellsmith."
The host gravely wiped his hand on his apron. "Glad to see you, Mr. Bellsmith," he said, and the two men shook hands very formally.
The "private dining-room" could apparently be either a dining-room or a bedroom, according to which office was most in demand, for an oak folding bed, in a creditable imitation of a wardrobe, with a large mirror in its face, stood at one end of the room, an ominous coil of rope hanging on the wall beside it. Between the windows was also a large dressing-table, now piled high, to be sure, with serving-trays and silverware but still unmistakably a dressing-table. Down the center of the large room, however, was an unimpeachable long white table, set invitingly for eight or ten persons, a neatly sliced red lobster with appropriate garnishings showing dramatically at each place.
With a nervous and excited, "Make yourselves at home, people: have a drink, Mr. Bellsmith," the host leaped away and went back to a small group of his fellow-players, who were busily engaged in pouring bottles of gin into a punch-bowl. Prominent in this group were the aggressive, stocky shoulders of Charlie Barnes, the comedian, with his short-cropped hair and his snuff-colored suit, a rather uncouth figure in these surroundings. As usual, Charlie Barnes was protesting loudly in his whining voice, advancing emphatic ideas as to how, in his opinion, a punch should be mixed.
In practice, however, the ultimate formula of the punch seemed to be merely an academic question and one never likely to be solved, for, without waiting for any more perfect state in its progress, Tommy Knight filled three sherbet glasses under the very streams of the pourers and brought them to his new guests.
"It's rather raccato," he said apologetically "but I think it 'll get better, don't you?"
Both girls smiled, and all three of his guests lifted their glasses.
"Well, Tommy," proposed Miss Marshall, "'ere's to young marster just a-coomin' of age!"
With the best of intentions she began to drink the toast, but the first sip ended in a choke and a violent cough. Tears came to her eyes. The punch was practically crude gin.
The host looked at her in concern. "What is it? Raw?" he asked. "Here! Let me get you another. It may be better now."
He seized her glass earnestly, but Miss Marshall clung to it. "No, Tommy, please," she begged. "This is all right. It was just that I was talking to talk at the same time."
To prove her case she began again very cautiously to sip the horrible mixture, while Tommy watched her with wistful eyes.
"Please let me get you another," he pleaded. "They 're putting some rum in it now, and that will help it a lot." He turned to Bellsmith. "Here, Mr. Bellsmith, throw that away somewhere and let me get you another glass."
But Bellsmith followed the lead of Miss Marshall.
"No, really," he protested. "This is fine. I am enjoying it hugely."
Poor Tommy Knight was easily assured, and he hurried back to the bowl, while the two girls with Bellsmith grinned at each other.
"Tommy's got what you might term a noble start," commented Miss Winner.
Miss Marshall took another furtive sip. "Well, it's his party."
As the girl continued cautiously to empty her glass Bellsmith in turn studied her with an increasing curiosity, for, since entering the room, Miss Marshall had shown a sudden new side to her personality, a personality which could hardly be called dual because one side slipped so easily into the other. It was a puzzling and rather fascinating paradox that now she really surprised him by being just what he would have expected her to be in the first place. This bonhomie phase of her curious and impulsive nature was apparently just as natural as had been that cynical, intolerant side which he had seen down-stairs and eminently better suited, Bellsmith decided, for getting her along—if the present company was representative— in her chosen profession.
Answering a hail from the other side of the room, Miss Winner had long since left them when Miss Marshall put her glass on a serving-tray and turned to Bellsmith.
"Well," she said, with a grin, "would you care to meet some of my fellow-mummers?"
It was a question not calling for an answer, and they began their circuit of the room, beginning at the punch-bowl where now only the host and Charlie Barnes remained. The latter Miss Marshall touched on the elbow, and the dwarfish little man turned belligerently as if expecting to be struck, but, on seeing her errand, straightened and held out his hand to Bellsmith.
"I'm pleased to meet you, sir," he said stiffly.
"Mr. Knight you already know," continued Miss Marshall.
"Oh, yes, certainly, surely; glad to see you, Mr. Bellsmith," agreed the host enthusiastically, shaking hands all over again. "Here, Mr. Bellsmith, try another of these now. It's a lot better. It really is."
In spite of protests, he insisted on filling two more glasses, and Miss Marshall and Bellsmith were forced to take them. As they drank, made cautious by experience. Tommy Knight watched them with all the wistfulness of a bride in her first kitchen.
"Is n't that a lot better?" he begged. "I leave it to you, Miss Marshall. Hasn't the rum helped it a lot?"
By some utter accident of alchemy it really had, and both the new-comers made the fatal mistake of saying so, for Tommy Knight needed only this faintest shade of applause to seize their glasses and enthusiastically fill them again. But Miss Marshall interposed.
"Not now, Tommy. Please. We 'll come back in a minute. I've got to take Mr. Bellsmith around and introduce him to the help."
Reluctantly the host allowed them to pass on to where Bellony, the big, red-faced tenor, was standing, absolutely alone, looking off into space. On him Miss Marshall wasted no time, making only the briefest and most perfunctory of introductions, to which the tenor replied with only a nod, giving Bellsmith a huge, damp, lifeless hand—the hand of a laborer turned soft. Beyond, they again encountered Elsie Winner, talking now with Mrs. Trip the "heavy" woman, and the assistant stage-manager, the latter a pleasant and curiously rustic-looking young man with curly hair and spectacles. Beyond this group two chorus girls, specially honored by invitations to this select party of principals were standing unnoticed in a corner, their arms around each other's waists. One of them was a faded, pathetic blond child with beautiful eyes and a soiled lace collar. The other was one of the neat and metallic little Jewesses. Both acknowledged the introduction of Bellsmith shyly and each repeated in a vague voice, "I'm pleased to meet you."
At the end of the room three more men, now including Charlie Barnes, were gathered around another chorus girl, a girl dressed, like Miss Winner, all in gray—gray hat, gray gown, gray spats,—but, unlike her, having a bold, hard face and an impudent gamine manner.
In the "Eleanor" company this girl was evidently regarded as whatever may be the feminine equivalent of a "card," for a group of men was constantly around her and every word she said was invariably greeted with uproarious laughter. Usually one of the men had his arm over her shoulder, not, certainly, from any affection, but merely to draw out the vicious retort which she would inevitably make. As the evening progressed this girl became more and more the center of attraction, and, to the men of the company, seemed more and more convulsing, although Bellsmith could see nothing amusing about her. Beyond a certain sustained effrontery none of her answers were witty and most of them were merely coarse, but she had only to snap "Yes," or "No," and a roar would go round the table. Perplexed at his own obtuseness and then fascinated by a sort of repulsion Bellsmith studied her when she was shouting along at her loudest and attracting most attention until he could see plainly enough that, like most of her kind, the poor creature was really slightly insane.
The rather appalling risk of meeting this girl, before a group ready to applaud any impertinence, was an ordeal which was fortunately spared Bellsmith. Before his guide and he reached her, two waiters had appeared in the room, and Tommy Knight began hammering loudly with a dessert-spoon on the table. In his other hand was one of his inevitable sherbet glasses of the birthday punch which, from having been first the color of water and then having changed to brown, had now, by some unexplained process, become a mild pink.
"Ladies and gentlemen," announced the host, waving his glass dangerously, while the curly-haired stage-manager, who stood near him, laughingly dodged each wave; "Ladies and gentlemen, on this auspicious occasion—on this suspicious occasion—well, anyway, sit down and go to it."
In a faint, polite eddy of laughter the guests proceeded to find their places by simply taking the nearest unoccupied chairs, but before they could actually sit down, Charlie Barnes, unwilling to let any ceremony go by so completely without his assistance, rapped at his end of the table, and the guests halted expectantly, still standing.
Barnes raised his glass, and Bellsmith, having seen him on the stage that evening, waited eagerly for something really good; but Barnes, like most Yoricks, was determined to see himself in a serious rôle. As he stood there now with his snuff-colored suit, his aggressive air, and his glass raised stiffly before him, he was curiously the pompous little provincial toast-master of the back-woods region from which he had undoubtedly sprung.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "before we sit down I propose a toast—a toast to the finest fellow that ever sang a song or danced on a stage—Mr. Tommy Knight!"
The other guests, apparently, had not looked for as much as had Bellsmith, but, respecting at least the intent if not the quality of the oration, all lifted their glasses. In the instant of silence the bold-faced girl interjected, "Was that a speech, or what was it?"
As soon as the glasses were emptied Tommy Knight again took the floor.
"Mr. Toast-master and ladies and gentlemen," he replied, "I thank you—"
"For my father I thank you," interrupted the bold-faced girl, "For my sister I thank you. Especially for my little daughter, I thank you. I thank you one and all, and at our next performance in Atlantic City I hope to see each and every one of you. I thank you."
"Be that as it may," resumed Knight, who was still on his feet, "I was about to say—"
"When so rudely interrupted," interposed the bold-faced girl, slapping herself on each cheek.
"I was about to say," continued Knight. "What the devil was I about to say?"
"Say it with flowers," suggested somebody, but the host was not to be diverted.
"It is with regret and horror—," he began.
"Great regret and exceeding horror," suggested the curly-haired stage-manager.
"Thank you," said the good-natured Tommy. "I assept the— I assept the— Well, anyway, you know what I do. I assept it."
"Great regret and exceeding horror," prompted the stage-manager, inexorably.
Tommy turned to him as if with a great and sudden light. "That's just the word I was trying to think of. Say it again, will you!"
"Great regret and exceeding horror," repeated the stage-manager, patiently.
Young Knight began peering into the air before him; then suddenly darted out his hand as if catching an imaginary insect, proceeded to wind it up like a ball of string, and tucked it neatly into the top pocket of his waistcoat.
"There! Now I 've got it," he sighed. "Exceeding regret and horror. It is with exceeding regret and horror that I have to allow you to drink this toast in such a vile mixture but—but—" he ended suddenly and weakly, his voice trailing off almost into a sob, "that manager of this hotel! He has a heart of stone, that manager!"
"For the love of Mike, let's sit down," proposed the hard-faced girl.
"I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon," agreed Tommy; "I knew there was something that we came here for, but I'd forgotten what. Ladies and gentlemen, be seated."
The punch had done its work with the host alone, for the rest of the company sat down quietly and, for a moment or two, began to eat with that prim, embarrassed genteelness which has probably opened every banquet since the beginning of time.
Bellsmith found himself between Miss Marshall and the "heavy woman," Mrs. Trip, an immense, dowager-type of Englishwoman with frankly gray hair, an accentuated London stage accent, and a sullen, disappointed face. At worst, however, she looked eminently safe, and Bellsmith addressed himself manfully to the task of polite dinner talk, but, beyond a few curt and unrelated responses, all in a deep Henry Irving tone of voice, the heavy woman would have none of him.
Poor Celestine Trip! for, by the malignant fate which pursues all fat women, that was really her name. She was representative of a type of English actress which, in minor rôles and all unknown to the public, infests the American stage. The daughter of a small magistrate or something of that sort in the south of England, educated in a superficial sense and, in her youth, skirting socially on the edges of the minor gentry, she had, almost in middle life, eloped with a perfectly honest and hard-working actor who would have cared for her decently and worshiped her honorably had she not patronized and hectored him into his grave.
For twenty years now, on this side of the water, she had existed solely for the purpose of putting Americans in their places. Indeed, as the increasing flood of fellow English actors threatened to disturb the monopoly of her accent and her airs, she had transferred the process even to her fellow-countrymen, had begun to take the despised Americans into her confidence and point out, as one who knew, that this English actress or that was "really a little Cockney, common as the stones, any one from the other side could easily spot them."
Her formula of life was a simple one and, for her stupid, English-provincial soul, it was perfectly convincing. All men and women whose birth was obviously below her own she dismissed as "common." All those whose circumstances were unmistakably above hers she stigmatized as "dowdy" or "nouveau." One half of the formula served for Charlie Barnes, as one is forced to fear the other half would, if occasion arose, have served for the Archbishop of Canterbury. For it is needless to say that women like Celestine Trip never meet any one of their own exact social status, and it is equally needless to say that not all such women are English.
In this particular case the harmless snobbery of the fatuous old woman was made poignant and hideous by the fact that every night this patronizer of "solicitaws," "linen drapaws," and other members of "your American upper classes" was obliged to earn her living by the coarse comedy of her own huge appearance, although, with the bland self-esteem of her kind, it is probable that she was completely able to blind herself to the truth and attribute the laughs which made her success to her own "technic" and comic genius. In all mercy let us hope so.