Jill the Reckless

P >> P. G. (Pelham Grenville) Wodehouse >> Jill the Reckless

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Wally laughed chokingly.

"You think I'm altruistic? I'm not. I'm just as selfish and
self-centred as any other man who wants a thing very badly. I'm as
altruistic as a child crying for the moon. I want you to marry me
because I love you, because there never was anybody like you, because
you're the whole world, because I always have loved you. I've been
dreaming about you for a dozen years, thinking about you, wondering
about you--wondering where you were, what you were doing, how you
looked. I used to think that it was just sentimentality, that you
merely stood for a time of my life when I was happier than I have ever
been since. I used to think that you were just a sort of peg on which
I was hanging a pleasant sentimental regret for days which could never
come back. You were a memory that seemed to personify all the other
memories of the best time of my life. You were the goddess of old
associations. Then I met you in London, and it was different. I wanted
you--_you_! I didn't want you because you recalled old times and were
associated with dead happiness, I wanted _you_! I knew I loved you
directly you spoke to me at the theatre that night of the fire. I
loved your voice and your eyes and your smile and your courage. And
then you told me you were engaged. I might have expected it, but I
couldn't keep my jealousy from showing itself, and you snubbed me as I
deserved. But now ... things are different now. Everything's
different, except my love."

Jill turned her face to the wall beside her. A man at the next table,
a corpulent, red-faced man, had begun to stare. He could have heard
nothing, for Wally had spoken in a low voice; but plainly he was aware
that something more interesting was happening at their table than at
any of the other tables, and he was watching with a bovine
inquisitiveness which affected Jill with a sense of outrage. A moment
before, she had resented the indifference of the outer world. Now,
this one staring man seemed like a watching multitude. There were
tears in her eyes, and she felt that the red-faced man suspected it.

"Wally...." Her voice broke. "It's impossible."

"Why? Why, Jill?"

"Because.... Oh, it's impossible!"

There was a silence.

"Because...." He seemed to find a difficulty in speaking. "Because of
Underhill?"

Jill nodded. She felt wretched. The monstrous incongruity of her
surroundings oppressed her. The orchestra had dashed into a rollicking
melody, which set her foot tapping in spite of herself. At a near-by
table somebody was shouting with laughter. Two waiters at a
service-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of their
talk. They were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. Once again
her feelings veered round, and she loathed the detachment of the
world. Her heart ached for Wally. She could not look at him, but she
knew exactly what she would see if she did--honest, pleading eyes
searching her face for something which she could not give.

"Yes," she said.

The table creaked. Wally was leaning further forward. He seemed like
something large and pathetic--a big dog in trouble. She hated to be
hurting him. And all the time her foot tapped accompaniment to the
rag-time tune.

"But you can't live all your life with a memory," said Wally.

Jill turned and faced him. His eyes seemed to leap at her, and they
were just as she had pictured them.

"You don't understand," she said gently. "You don't understand."

"It's ended. It's over."

Jill shook her head.

"You can't still love him, after what has happened!"

"I don't know," said Jill unhappily.

The words seemed to bewilder Wally as much as they had bewildered
Freddie.

"You don't know?"

Jill shut her eyes tight. Wally quivered. It was a trick she had had
as a child. In perplexity, she had always screwed up her eyes just
like that, as if to shut herself up in herself.

"Don't talk for a minute, Wally," she said. "I want to think."

Her eyes opened.

"It's like this," she said. He had seen her look at him in exactly the
same way a hundred times. "I don't suppose I can make you understand,
but this is how it is. Suppose you had a room, and it was full--of
things. Furniture. And there wasn't any space left. You--you couldn't
put anything else in till you had taken all that out, could you? It
might not be worth anything, but it would still be there, taking up
all the room."

Wally nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I see."

"My heart's full, Wally dear. I know it's just lumber that's choking
it up, but it's difficult to get it out. It takes time getting it out.
I put it in, thinking it was wonderful furniture, the most wonderful
in the world, and--I was cheated. It was just lumber. But it's there.
It's still there. It's there all the time. And what am I to do?"

The orchestra crashed, and was silent. The sudden stillness seemed to
break a spell. The world invaded the little island where they sat. A
chattering party of girls and men brushed past them. The waiter,
judging that they had been there long enough, slipped a strip of
paper, decorously turned upside down, in front of Wally. He took the
money, and went away to get change.

Wally turned to Jill.

"I understand," he said. "All this hasn't happened, and we're just as
good pals as before?"

"Yes."

"But...." He forced a laugh ... "mark my words, a time may come, and
then...!"

"I don't know," said Jill.

"A time may come," repeated Wally. "At any rate, let me think so. It
has nothing to do with me. It's for you to decide, absolutely. I'm not
going to pursue you with my addresses! If ever you get that room of
yours emptied, you won't have to hang out a 'To Let' sign. I shall be
waiting, and you will know where to find me. And, in the meantime,
yours to command, Wallace Mason. Is that clear?"

"Quite clear." Jill looked at him affectionately. "There's nobody I'd
rather open that room to than you, Wally. You know that."

"Is that the solemn truth?"

"The solemn truth."

"Then," said Wally, "in two minutes you will see a startled waiter.
There will be about fourteen dollars change out of that twenty he took
away. I'm going to give it all to him."

"You mustn't!"

"Every cent!" said Wally firmly. "And the young Greek brigand who
stole my hat at the door is going to get a dollar! That, as our
ascetic and honourable friend Goble would say, is the sort of little
guy _I_ am!"

* * * * *

The red-faced man at the next table eyed them as they went out,
leaving behind them a waiter who clutched totteringly for support at
the back of a chair.

"Had a row," he decided, "but made it up."

He called for a toothpick.

CHAPTER XVI

MR. GOBLE PLAYS WITH FATE

I

On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resort
which has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there stands
an all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management and
offering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at which
Jill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, its
hospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;
but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and the
customer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silent
gravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voice
and tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. The
members of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by ones
and twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after the
events recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave their
orders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.

The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. It
is the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to live
entirely by pleasure, to attend a species of vaudeville
performances--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights,
and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenery
could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Rose
of America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama no
dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a
half, the curtain had not gone up on Mr. Miller's opening chorus till
half-past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences, interminable
arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious man in
shirt-sleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, further
conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak of
debate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the
"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name
of Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock a
complete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, who
had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night, had
limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going to
bed.

They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circles
beneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the
make-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess,
haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table. The
red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning sunshine out on
the boardwalk.

The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh
through a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made during the
interval of waiting for the meal.

"The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She looked
at her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ a
face!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to go
around with it long!"

A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work on
the night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with
a clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.
The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at the mere
sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of the theatrical
worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutes these girls
would be feeling completely restored and fit for anything.

Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of
the restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.

"It's a great life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub hungrily
attacking her omelette. "And the wortht is yet to come! I thuppose all
you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewritten from
end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the time we're
on the road."

"Why?" Lois Denham spoke with her mouth full. "What's wrong with it?"

The Duchess took a sip of coffee.

"Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "What's wrong with it? What's
right with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!"

"One would feel thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk why
one was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing when
one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars a month."

"The numbers are all right," argued Babe. "I don't mean the melodies,
but Johnny has arranged some good business."

"He always does," said the Southern girl. "Some more buckwheat cakes,
please. But what about the book?"

"I never listen to the book."

The Cherub laughed.

"You're too good to yourself! I listened to it right along, and take
it from me it's sad! Of courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't open
in New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn't thtand it!
Didn't you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They've got him
down to do the re-writing."

Jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation,
fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up.

"Was Wally--was Mr. Mason there?"

"Sure. Sitting at the back."

Jill could not have said whether she was glad or sorry. She had not
seen Wally since that afternoon when they had lunched together at the
Cosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had given
her little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mind
had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think of
him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to
re-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when the
thought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warming her
with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And then some
sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out.

She came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken another
turn.

"And the wortht of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall rehearthe
all day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone,
and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!"

"That's right!" agreed the Southern girl.

"They couldn't!" Jill cried.

"You wait!" said the Cherub. "They'll never open in New York with
thirteen girls. Ike's much too thuperstitious."

"But they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked so
hard!"

There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of the
chivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of her
more experienced colleagues.

"They'll do anything," the Cherub assured her.

"You don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed Lois Denham. "You
don't know the half of it!"

"Wait till you've been in as many shows as I have," said Babe, shaking
her red locks. "The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving her head off
all through the road-tour and then fire her before the New York
opening."

"But it's a shame! It isn't fair!"

"If one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with a
prolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business."

And, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleep again.

The slumber of the Duchess was the signal for a general move. Her
somnolence was catching. The restorative effects of the meal were
beginning to wear off. There was a call for a chorus rehearsal at four
o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get some sleep
while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her dreams by means
of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; bills were paid; and the
company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlight of the
empty boardwalk.

Jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seat
facing the sea. Tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight,
crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walking to
the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharing a
room with the Cherub, paralysed her.

It was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warm
freshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. The sea sparkled
in the sun. Little waves broke lazily on the grey sand. Jill closed
her eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and her
thoughts went back to what the Cherub had said.

If Wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be thrown
together. She would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure that
she was ready to meet him. Still, he would be somebody to talk to on
subjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebody who
belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard Freddie Rooke in
this light; for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as a
principal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in the
company. Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject for
conversation that did not have to do with "The Rose of America" in
general and his share in it in particular. Jill had given him up, and
he had paired off with Nelly Bryant. The two were inseparable. Jill
had taken one or two meals with them, but Freddie's professional
monologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, were too much for
her. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls in the
company whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimate
friends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. She
was lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tired
mind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thought
that Wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness.

She opened her eyes, blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with an
insidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. She
was just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to the
boarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side.

"Hullo! Good morning!"

Jill looked up.

"Hullo, Wally!"

"Surprised to see me?"

"No. Milly Trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night."

Wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. His eyes
were tired, and his chin dark and bristly.

"Had breakfast?"

"Yes, thanks. Have you?"

"Not yet. How are you feeling?"

"Rather tired."

"I wonder you're not dead. I've been through a good many
dress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. Why they couldn't have
had it comfortably in New York and just have run through the piece
without scenery last night, I don't know, except that in musical
comedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. They
know perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the scenery
into the theatre till the small hours. You must be worn out. Why
aren't you in bed?"

"I couldn't face the walk. I suppose I ought to be going, though."

She half rose, then sank back again. The glitter of the water
hypnotized her. She closed her eyes again. She could hear Wally
speaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and she
ceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.

Jill awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again at
once. The sun was very strong now. It was one of those prematurely
warm days of early Spring which have all the languorous heat of late
summer. She opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feeling
greatly refreshed. She also discovered that her head was resting on
Wally's shoulder.

"Have I been asleep?"

Wally laughed.

"You have been having what you might call a nap." He massaged his left
arm vigorously. "You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?"

"Good gracious! Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Why
didn't you move?"

"I was afraid you would fall over. You just shut your eyes and toppled
sideways."

"What's the time?"

Wally looked at his watch.

"Just on ten."

"Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp for
about three hours! You must have had an awful time!"

"Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that the
birds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the
'Babes in the Wood.'"

"But you haven't had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?"

"Well, I'm not saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim if it
happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lots of
doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs go
without food for days at a time in order to develop their souls. Shall
I take you back to wherever you're staying? You ought to get a proper
sleep in bed."

"Don't dream of taking me. Go off and have something to eat."

"Oh, that can wait. I'd like to see you safely home."

Jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. There was
no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she had
known. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining something
valuable under false pretences.

"Wally!"

"Hullo?"

"You--you oughtn't to be so good to me!"

"Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--to
a pal in trouble?"

"You know what I mean. I can't ... that is to say ... it isn't as
though ... I mean...."

Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.

"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! We
had all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. You
mustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossed
the boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead the way.
I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothing more. But,
as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an old friend. If
an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_ an old friend
behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of the conversation.
But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?"

"Oh, no."

"Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr. Pilkington."

"What!"

"Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The human
giraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which he
legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes
nourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had a
conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr. Goble told
him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience I have
never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rotten high-brow
false-alarm of a show--I am quoting Mr. Goble--would have to be
rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alien
right hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrument
selected for the murder of Pilkington's artistic aspirations. I'm
going to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten the first
act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency and told me
to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard ever since. We
shall start rehearsing the new version to-morrow and open in Baltimore
next Monday with practically a different piece. And it's going to be a
pippin, believe _me_, said our hero modestly. A gang of composers has
been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chucking out nearly all
of the original music, we shall have a good score. It means a lot of
work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of the numbers will have to
be re-arranged."

"I like work," said Jill. "But I'm sorry for Mr. Pilkington."

"He's all right. He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make a
fortune. He's certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if he
doesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it.
From what he said at the close of the proceedings, I fancy he would
sell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washed
his hands of the piece. He's going back to New York this
afternoon--won't even wait for the opening. Of course, _I'm_ sorry for
the poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellent
central idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by the
way!"

"Yes?"

"Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He's
out!"

"Oh, no!"

"Out!" repeated Wally firmly.

"But didn't you think he was good last night?"

"He was awful! But that isn't why. Goble wanted his part rewritten as
a Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hit
last season in 'Hoots, Mon!' That sort of thing is always happening in
musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good people
happen to be available at the moment. My heart bleeds for Freddie, but
what can one do? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in
one of my shows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped
from an asylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted
that he should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard
that a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthless
business."

"The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed."

"Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely."

"I hope not."

"So do I. What are we stopping for?"

Jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking house, one of those
depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seashore resorts and
start to decay the moment the builders have left them.

"I live here."

"Here?" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But...."

Jill smiled.

"We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quite
comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."
She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry in
and go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind you
go and get a good breakfast."

II

When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus
rehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparently
been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in the cast
preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she found her colleagues
still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!" was the gloomy
watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.

The rehearsal passed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock,
when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went to
snatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. It
was not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the over-exertion
of the previous night, and it was too early for first-night excitement
to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whose spirits seldom
failed her, was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had
grown. It seemed now to be merely a question of speculating on the
victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as the last addition to the
company, and so the cause of swelling the ranks of the chorus to the
unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was glad when it was time to
go back to the theatre.

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