And the citizens of Hartford fought for seats, and, if they could not get seats, stood up at the back.
Of these things Otis Pilkington was not aware. He had sold his interest in the piece two weeks ago for ten thousand dollars to a lawyer acting for some client unknown, and was glad to feel that he had saved something out of the wreck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1.
The violins soared to one last high note: the bassoon uttered a final moan: the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit, just under Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum at stated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concluding wallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to stray in the direction of cooling drinks. Mr Saltzburg lowered the baton which he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down and mopped his forehead. The curtain fell on the first act of “The Rose of America,” and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out from all over the Gotham Theatre, which was crammed from floor to roof with that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up the audience of a New York opening performance. The applause continued like the breaking of waves on a stony beach. The curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. An usher, stealing down the central aisle, gave to Mr Saltzburg an enormous bouquet of American Beauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with a brilliant smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyful surprise. The applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strength again. It was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as Mr Saltzburg himself. It had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars that morning at Thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money.
The house-lights went up. The audience began to move up the aisles to stretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. There was a general babble of conversation. Here, a composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show was explaining to another composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exact source from which a third composer who had got an interpolated number in the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated. There, two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting were agreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary as it was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say that she was beginning to show the passage of the years a trifle and ought to be warned by some friend that her career as an ingenue was a thing of the past. Dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into dark corners, were telling each other that “The Rose of America” was just another of those things but it had apparently got over. The general public was of the opinion that it was a knock-out.
“Otie darling,” said Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ample shoulder on Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking across him to young Mr Pilkington, “I do congratulate you, dear. It's perfectly delightful! I don't know when I have enjoyed a musical piece so much. Don't you think it's perfectly darling, Major Selby?”
“Capital!” agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as near extinction as makes no matter. “Congratulate you, my boy!”
“You clever, clever thing!” said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking her nephew on the knee with her fan. “I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren't you proud to know him, Mr Rooke?”
The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species of stupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of the McWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark moments in Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out into the heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discovered their absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On another occasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he had discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-school champion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-off of the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sad when it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derek the cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career had he experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him that evening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder the part that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, had roared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!
“Eh?” he replied. “Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!”
“We're
She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes she was inflicting. Poor Mr Pilkington was suffering twin torments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit and watch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedy which Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of money out of it. Now, even this material balm was denied him. He had sold out, and he was feeling like the man who parts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine, only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has been located. Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower was falling now into young Mr. Pilkington's.
“Of course,” went on Mrs Peagrim, “when the play was done at my house, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! The cast tonight is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is the most killing creature! Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?”
We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but it cannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back for support on the traditions of his class and the solid support of a gentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down the words that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politely conventional agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a too impulsive seller of gold-mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to those of the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing but Winchester and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, though twisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face and off again at his hostess' question.
“Oh, rather! Priceless!”
“Wasn't that part an Englishman before?” asked Mrs Peagrim. “I thought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. This Scotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!”
Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.
“Think,” he mumbled, “I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette.”
He groped his way to the door.
“I'll come with you, Freddie my boy,” said Uncle Chris, who felt an imperative need of five minutes' respite from Mrs Peagrim. “Let's get out into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here.”
