CHAPTER III

I

In the entrance of the Circle Theatre there were already several loiterers awaiting friends with whom they were going to see the new play. Among them John. There was of course, nothing unusual in his appearance; the gallery queue which had filed past the main entrance, after its long vigil, would not know he differed from any other of those fortunate fellows who, well-groomed, drove up in taxis and cars and walked to their reserved seats, carrying the undigested peacock to the stalls. It was all so new to him, this animated scene with its types of humanity. Merritt, a thoroughly good fellow who had immediately shown a kindly disposition to the new man, had introduced him to Bailey, the dramatic critic of the _Echo_, who now accompanied him. Together they stood by the portrait of a famous American actress and scrutinised the arriving audience. There were Jews, of course, little men, with semi-bald heads and black curly fringes; they all wore patent button boots, and very fancy dress waistcoats. The cut of their clothes was ultra-fashionable, and there was a glint of gold and a flash of diamonds at many points of their ostentatious persons. Gold-mounted walking sticks and cigars were noticeable.

"These are the inner circle of the dramatic world," said Bailey. "That's Reinstein; he owns six theatres and a chain of restaurants; you eat his dinners and then try to digest them and his plays in his stalls. I've seen great dramatists, men who can make you weep with their beautiful sentiment, run across the street to speak to him."

"That's an awful looking beggar," said John, catching a vile leer directed at an under-dressed young woman who waved an ostrich feather fan as she passed, on the arm of an old man.

"A clever fellow--nine successes this season. That's Wentz, his scout, a word from him will make or mar an actor or actress."

"Who's the man he's talking to?"

"Ah--that's Lewis--he's one of us," replied Bailey.

"Us?"

"The most aggressive, the most feared and advertised of us all. His column every Sunday is said to be the only thing that Reinstein and his crowd worry about."

John looked at him. Hook-nosed he wore an ingratiating smile and his voice purred as he spoke; when he laughed he emitted a high falsetto note. John's observation was broken by the entrance of an amazing spectacle into the charmed circle. A man, so diminutive that his dress shirt dominated him like a plate on a plate-holder, was shaking hands with Lewis. On his fat nose he balanced, precariously, a pair of pince-nez through which he peered bemusedly. The tips of his chubby hands just emerged from two prominent cuffs, his legs being wholly lost in corkscrew trousers falling over the feet.

"Good heavens!" cried John, "just look at--"

But another apparition joined the circle. Nature had created him as an antidote to the little man. He was huge; a behemoth. His heavy jaw, the massive head, the long teeth, made him a perfect ogre, and in fulfilment he scowled at his companions. His large hands hooked themselves by the thumbs on to the pockets of voluminous trousers.

"They belong to us," said Bailey, enjoying the shock he administered. John's pride in his vocation had been too obvious not to afford amusement to a confirmed cynic who had sat in the stalls for twenty years, and had never betrayed the weakness of enthusiasm.

"But--but surely," said John, "the newspapers don't send people like these--what about their dignity?"

"Dignity! There's no such thing in journalism. That belongs to the leader-writer--in print."

"Are they all like this?"

"Most of us," replied Bailey, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. "We're working 'subs' by day and deadhead gentlemen by night--the more respectable are civil servants--and they are the least civil critics. Still--there are a few presentable ones; we have the Grand Old Man--he's not here yet. He is a perfect contrast to the Nut-food man--they'll be here later."

A curly-headed young man in a fur coat strolled in. He gave himself a side glance in the long mirror, approved of his classic beauty and passed on. Everybody nodded to him and he acknowledged their homage graciously. Several elderly ladies and a flashily dressed actress hurried after him into the theatre.

"That's Ronnie Mayfair--the actor. Freddie Pond will be here soon. I've never known him to miss a first night."

Just then, John's attention was attracted by a swift glimpse of a passing head. Its unusual beauty arrested him, the dark vivacious eyes flashing under a head of black bobbed hair. She could not be more than twenty, he thought, she was so slim. The extreme simplicity of her dress, falling without any decoration from shoulder to the knee, emphasised the lightness of her poise. She was a swift darting creature, with a sensuous mouth, crimson and pensive. But there was determination, defiance almost, in every movement of her body. Passion merely smouldered: she could be a creature of sudden contrary moods. She threw John a quick but searching glance as she passed, conscious of her power to attract, and the weakness of all his sex to respond, and yet it was not a challenge so much as a half-contemptuous provocation of his nature. Bailey, observant and detached, did not fail to see the magic fire that had leapt from one to the other. He saw this youth quiver with a sudden agitation, saw the answering challenge of the lithe form that flitted by, sure of the spoil if it cared to possess.

"No," said Bailey, laying a hand on John's shoulder, amused at his false assumption of indifference, "don't be another moth. There are too many singed already."

The boy laughed, then, with a careless tone----"Who is she?"

"The Chelsea Poppy--she's Hoffmann's famous model."

He knew then in a moment. So this was the Chelsea Poppy, the much sonneted model of Hoffmann's famous heads. He loathed this forceful Jew's sculpture--its deliberate accentuation of the ugly, its cult of the repulsive, its coarse workmanship, apologised for as the new art. Like others he had wondered how foolish Society women could make themselves so extravagant over this ugly little man, the jerseyed king of the Café de l'Europe, with a court of disorderly disciples. The head of Poppy was famous. In the marble he had loathed its sensuality, the ugliness of the contorted face. But there was a repulsive similarity to the original; it was a cruel travesty of the flower-like beauty he had just seen.

"She's--amazing," said John, not trusting himself to say more.

"In many ways," added Bailey. "Here's Freddie. It is a perfect first-night, if the Grand Old Man will come."

"Curtain up!" came the call. The lounge emptied into the darkened house. The dramatic critics became very serious.

II

The end of the first act gave John another glimpse of the Chelsea Poppy, a less assuring glimpse. She was talking, at the entrance to the bar, to a cadaverous fellow who leered at her, and an involuntary shudder passed over John as he noticed the possessive look in the eyes of the man; he resented the fact that the girl seemed in no way perturbed. Probably she was at home with that kind of man; certainly she talked with absolute familiarity, and her hoarse little laugh jarred on the ears of the youth ready to adore. Twice she winked at a pair of young cavalry officers who sat on a lounge opposite, partly to display their seamless boots, partly to catch the girl's eye. Snatches of their conversation floated over to the youth who stood alone under the mirror. They were enjoying themselves at the expense of the promenaders. The diminutive fat man provoked their scorn.

"How do such people get into this part of the house?" asked the pink and white youth, twisting an auburn moustache.

"Can't say," drawled the pride of the regiment, regarding with satisfaction his thin thighs. "The fellow's a reporter I suppose!" They yawned and then watched a girl's ankles until she drew near, whereupon they coldly looked at her from head to foot. She seated herself on the lounge. When John turned away she had taken a cigarette from the proffered case. They did not rise with the call of the curtain. In the interval after the second act, John let Bailey point out more celebrities. There was a distinguished looking Jew, with dilated nostrils, iron grey hair and a stoop, handsome in the manner of his race, bearing the impress of intellect.

"That's Luboff the novelist!"

The famous portrayer of Jewry passed; his face, despite its lineal coarseness, had an amazing beauty in its character. A few minutes later Bailey was talking with the novelist and introduced John, who found himself magnetised by an intense personality with great charm. He was a man with a hundred fights against poverty, prejudice and ill-health, but he had triumphed nobly. He had interpreted the Jews to a scornful world, displayed their poverty, revealed their poetry. As a dramatist he had assumed the role of a reformer; he entertained the crowd, but he lectured it. After a few minutes' chat he left them to speak to Lord Rendon, who, despite his elephantine exterior, had a nimble mind versed in the subtleties of politics and philosophy. At this moment John's attention was arrested by the re-appearance of the girl in red. She was talking to an astounding man whose hair straggled in disorder down to and over a soft brown collar. He wore a pair of black metal pince-nez, smoked a stubby pipe, the bowl of which he pressed from time to time with fingers that scorned the need of the manicurist. The Socialist was written all over him; there was sabotage in his eyes, repressed defiance in his gestures. He wore, to accentuate his untidy eccentricity, a faded brown sports coat, the pockets bulging with papers, and most of the buttons missing.

"Ah," said Bailey, "now you've seen the nut-food man--that's Adams of the _Argus_--clever chap, but thinks untidiness is a sign of intellect."

"I see he knows the model--he's a Bohemian?"

"Yes--at least he hopes so. We haven't any real Bohemians in this country. They live on the Continent. When Englishmen try to be Bohemian they only succeed in being lazy or noisy. You'll find that each of them is regarded as a rising poet, a rising novelist or a rising dramatist. They're always rising until they are middle-aged, when they disappear somewhere. Really, Bohemians are the dullest persons; they've no topics but their egotism. Avoid them, Dean--they're never hygienic. I can enjoy a third-rate artist who is ornamental, but these people are merely extravagant."

"But he looks interesting," urged John.

"So he is--you want to meet him?"

"Well--" He was desperately anxious to know Adams, for Adams knew the girl. He must speak to her before the play ended. Bailey guessed the hope and buttonholed Adams who shook hands.

"This is Mr. Dean. Tilly," he said, turning to the girl who had drawn aside.

"Miss Topham," he informed John. The girl looked at him casually, and merely exclaimed, "Oh!" It was a shock to the eager youth and for two or three minutes she ignored him. Then--

"You're new to London?" she said coldly.

"Yes, but who told you?" answered John.

"No one,--I could see you were by the way you've been looking at people."

This was a set back. John gave her a frightened look and she was pleased by this success.

"Have I--I hope I don't appear--" he stammered.

"It doesn't matter--they like it; that's what they come here for."

John was a little uncertain who "they" meant. It seemed to include every one but herself.

"Have you a cigarette?" she asked, abruptly.

The boy's heart sank.

"I haven't--I don't smoke. I can get some."

"Don't bother." She looked at him curiously. "You don't smoke--you're a queer kid." They stood alone now, for Adams and Bailey had strolled on. He noticed how transparently thin were her hands, which she tucked in her belt. Her neck had a lovely line in its perfect sweep from the throat down.

"You are an art student?" she asked, with a faint smirk.

"Oh no--I'm on a paper--why?"

"You examine like one."

He flushed with the detection, and she gave a little laugh of triumph.

"Sit down and tell me all about yourself--you puzzle me," she said. "You look as if you'll do all sorts of wonderful things, but people who look like that hardly ever do anything."

He was easier now. They sat side by side on the lounge.

"There's little to tell, Miss--"

"Oh, drop that, I'm Tilly to every one."

"Tilly then,--you see I haven't left school long."

"I can see that--the down's on you yet." The remark hurt him and she saw it, swiftly.

"Don't mind me," she said quietly, putting a hand on his arm. "You see I'm used to men that gloat and want rebuffing."

She laughed at the surprise in John's eyes.

"Don't look like that or I shall melt. You're a nice boy, and I'm afraid of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes--you make me think of lots of things I've given up thinking about. Harry must ask you to tea."

So she was married! Of course she was married, he reflected, he was a fool not to have known from the first.

"I should like very much to come."

She looked at him again, until he looked away, and with a little laugh jumped up. "We must get back now. I'll see you soon. Good-bye!" and she was gone. What an off-hand creature! He was annoyed at her manner. She had treated him like an infant. She had laughed at him. He had let her see too much. When the play was ended and he stood in the crowded vestibule with Bailey, amid the crush of fur-wrapped women and black-coated men, he was still thinking of her.

"You've made a hit with Tilly," said Bailey.

"I!"

"Yes--and she doesn't pay compliments--but don't let her play with you; she doesn't take any one seriously."

"I'm not likely to do that," replied John shortly.

"Come along then--we've to get our work done."

III

Merritt, chief reporter of the _Daily Post_, was a remarkable little man. He was quite aware of this and retained his reputation with ease. The life of a chief reporter is a desperate one. The most amazing news scoop to-day is dead twenty-four hours later, and a big reputation can be lost in a day's idleness. Merritt showed no signs of anxiety. He sat at his desk in the stuffy little room adjoining the reporting room, whence he would dart out to send a man speeding across London or to Aberdeen. His totally bald head gleamed with vitality. He could be very rude and very rough, but men had rushed to Ireland at his behest and accounted themselves rewarded when he smiled and said "Good!" He was part of the _Daily Post_ and could not conceive how a man could wish to live for anything else. No one ever saw him go home and no one ever saw him come; he was the first and the last, and when he had gone, he was not at rest. His voice often spoke over the wire from Brixton, disturbing the early morning rest of a jaded reporter. A fire at Muswell Hill, a murder in Camden Town, a burglary in Knightsbridge or an assault at Tottenham--he knew of it first, scented the clue, despatched the sleuth-hounds.

It was rumoured that he was married, but for years there was no evidence, until one day he disappeared and returned wearing black. He had buried his eldest boy of twelve. The senior reporter to whom he mentioned this was about to make a remark, and he saw Merritt's mouth twitch, but the next second he was being told of an entry on the diary. It was work, work, work. Other men fell ill, became nervous wrecks, took to drink, were promoted, or left. Merritt remained chief reporter, known from one end of Fleet Street to another, perhaps from one end of the world to the other. He never went out, save at four o'clock for an hour, when he would be seen in a bar near by, within sound of the buses, and he went there for news. He knew every one. Men in the Lobby of the "House," on the Stock Exchange, in Whitehall or at Epsom would ask "How's Merritt?" He was the link to publicity. He knew enough about the lives of men to equip a squad of blackmailers; and K.C.s consulted him when accepting briefs. He had saved a king from assassination and rescued a bishop from a charge of being drunk and disorderly. He had witnessed a succession of editors. Merritt stayed, for Merritt was the _Daily Post_.

But above all, this stout little man of fifty knew men. It was he who discovered Burton Phipps, their star descriptive writer, had sent him off to Norway to intercept and expose the sham explorer of the Pole. Jane, the finest parliamentary sketch writer in England, was trained under his hands. Merton, the editor of the _Morning Telegraph_, Layman, the President of the Board of Trade, Reddington, chairman of the United Banks--all had groaned in their youth under his merciless yoke of discipline. Loved and feared, he spared no man, and he never encountered rebellion because he never pitied himself. "Merritt's a devil," every one said--"but a wonderful devil," they added.

He took John in hand. He made him compress a column of wonderful writing to fifteen living lines. He made him re-dress a plain narrative in a style that "tickled." He told John to use words of as few syllables as possible. "All sub-editors are ignorant and full of malice," he said, with traditional jealousy. He was never to worry about what the public thought of this or that. "The public don't think, they follow." It was a heartbreaking apprenticeship. The fine column on the Kennel Show went into the waste paper basket. "There's two murders come in and the subs say we're overset." He ridiculed a "special" on teashop girls with rapier wit, told John he wrote too fast to write well, and was as guileless as an infant in arms. Once, with a brusque committal of a much-esteemed article, he brought misery to John's eyes, saw it, and growled,

"You're a journalist all right, but your stalk's green," and with his wry smile brought a lump into the youth's throat.

"Am I--am I giving satisfaction, Mr. Merritt?"

The chief reporter looked over the top of his glasses--

"The Chief sent you to me for occasional work. You've done a banquet, a dog-show, four police courts, three inquests, two plays, a poster show and several special enquiries. You've been running about like a hare for ten days--you've not been an occasional, but a daily event. And I don't waste my time!"

It was true, John was worked hard every day. Each night the diary had the initials J.D. with a cryptic assignation following. Sometimes he accompanied a senior, a note-taker, and looked out for a descriptive paragraph; more often he was alone. On the night that he had returned from his first play, after he had sent in his pencilled copy to the subs room, he looked at the diary and almost jumped in exultation.--"J.D. 7.15., Artists Union, Chelsea Theatre, half col." Here was his chance!

IV

The members of the Artists Union were certainly artistic. A novelist who specialised in love and divorce in the Sunday newspapers and was dignified with the title of 'publicist' made a long tirade against the ignorant but prosperous industrial classes. A young man followed this, very nerve-racked and bordering on hysteria, with an oration proving that hunger and genius were inseparable, whereupon a stout lady at the back of the diminutive theatre rose up and declared that all artists, musicians, and authors should be a direct charge on the Government, a sentiment that was applauded loudly. Thoroughly enjoying himself, John sat next to a young lady in a gaudy kimono who was busy sketching the speakers, while a young man with a red beard that half hid a very weak mouth, drank tea out of a thermos flask. A wealthy lady, interested in art, occupied the chair, which must have been very uncomfortable, for most of the brilliantly insulting things said applied perfectly to her husband, a wholesale grocer, who, to atone for disfiguring England with placards inciting the public to drink Tiffinson's Tea, bought preposterous modern paintings at well advertised figures. John discovered it was a gathering of minor notabilities; there was Mr. Shandon Gunn, the cubist painter who laboriously disguised the fact that he had ever studied at the Slade School, or knew the meaning of perspective. When slightly drunk, he was reputed to be epigrammatic. His speech was cheered vociferously for its cleverness in conveying absolutely nothing to the audience. He was followed by Mr. Leslie Bumbo, a pallid fellow, the apostle of art with an ego, who wrote art books, and kept a book shop in a slum, which revealed a knowledge of business, since the bookshop kept him. Moreover, he led a culture movement for leisured ladies, who gathered every Wednesday in a shanty at the back of his house, where, in a dim light and a dim voice, he droned out his latest discourses on art. It was remunerative if mournful, for the ladies paid a shilling for admittance, bought the discourses and went home feeling gloriously advanced. His speech this evening was confined to an embroidery on "The Ugly as an incentive to Murder."

John was indebted for personal details to the young lady in the kimono, who called him "kid" and smoked incessantly while she drew. Towards the end of the meeting she waved her hand to a girl who had pushed forward in the crowded doorway. John looked and, with a slight thrill of pleasure, recognised Tilly. In the conversazione that ensued when the formal meeting ended, they sat in a corner together and drank coffee. She knew everybody and introduced him freely as "Scissors." When the company was going, Tilly, who had collected a small crowd, caught hold of John's arm.

"Come along, Scissors!" she cried, propelling him towards the door.

"Where?" he asked.

"To my studio--we're having a romp."

"But I can't go--I've to get my copy ready for the office."

"Oh damn!"

He wished she hadn't said it. Perhaps he was old-fashioned, but somehow, a girl who used that word was a little--er? That was what John could not precisely say; he had been trying to since their first meeting. He did not want to appear a prig, and yet--. He knew Muriel would not approve, but he laughed at the thought. A speaker had been attacking the Victorians for their smugness--well, he was being very early Victorian.

"Come on, kid," cried the young lady in the kimono. He stood between Scylla and Charybdis. A vision of Merritt nerved him to resistance.

"Then come after, we'll go on till three or four." Weakly he declined and weakly he surrendered. He took the address and promised to return as soon as he could. It was half-past one when his work was done, and he knocked at the door of Birch Lodge Studios, No. 4, off the King's Road. There was a great noise of revelry within. When the door opened, he found himself in a large room, with a half-roof of sloping glass through which the moon peered down. A dozen Chinese lanterns illuminated the room and were reflected in the polished floor whereon about twenty couples were dancing to the music of a gramophone.

"Scissors, you dear!" cried Tilly, as he entered. "I didn't think you'd come."

"But I promised," he said, as she took his overcoat. The next moment she had taken him in her arms and they were whirling through the maze of the dance. She was hot and the studio was stuffy, and there was a languor in the manner in which she hung in his arms that was half-trustful and half-seductive. At the far end of the room, where the candle of the lantern was guttering, it was almost dark as they danced round. She gave a little laugh as the candle went out, her mouth provokingly near to his, her eyes softly luminous in the moonlight falling through the glass. The rhythm, the warmth, the music worked upon him; he was whirling, he knew not where. For a moment he hesitated, then laughed as she laughed, and the next moment quenched his boyish thirst on her lips. Convulsively she clung a moment, then collapsed softly in his arms, and he experienced a strength that was weakness, a tenderness that was cruelty. He paused, floundering in a sea of the senses.

"Go on," she whispered, for the other couples in rotation were crowding upon them. She pushed him round, but not before the girl in the kimono swirled by and laughed out.

"Caught you that time!"

The tone was vile, the accent inexpressibly vulgar; it jarred on the excited youth who danced dizzily. Tilly, more acutely alive and now self-possessed, felt her partner give a shiver of disgust.

"Let's sit this out--I don't want to dance any more--please."

They sat on a camp bed along the main wall, in silence.

"You're angry," she whispered looking at him coyly.

"I'm not."

"Oh, yes you are--look at me, you sulky boy."

He looked into her mischievous eyes, and he had to laugh.

She twined her fingers with his.

"That's sensible," she said. "We're only young once," and she let her head rest on his shoulder, her soft hair warmly clouding his cheek. The next moment he was holding her with all the strength of his lissome young body, and laughed delightedly when she winced at his ardour. Yes, he was only young once.

"_--way down in Tennessee,_"

whined the gramophone. Only a few were dancing now. Little bursts of laughter and chatter came from dusky groups around the studio. It was all rather unearthly in that aromatic atmosphere. Some one wound up the gramophone and put on a new record--

"_While shepherds watched their flocks by night All seated on the--_"

"Oh, stop it," came a voice, and there was a laugh all round.

"Got 'em mixed," responded another. "Here's 'In Alabama'--how's that?" The gramophone whirred on, and the dancing began again.

It was nearly three when the guests began to depart. John knew none of them. He had not seen their faces clearly all the night, but they somehow knew his name was "Scissors," and treated him familiarly. Most of the men were about his own age, the women a little older. The humourist of the party, whom they called "The Doc" was about forty-five and seemed to father the assembly.

"Don't go yet," said Tilly as she stood by the door. "I'm not a bit sleepy and I want to talk." He stood aside and let the others go. At last only one girl remained.

John came back to earth abruptly.

"Where's Mr. Adams--I haven't seen him all the evening."

"Harry?--oh, I don't know--he comes in when he likes," replied Tilly, drawing up a chair to the anthracite stove. She began talking to the other girl Fanny, who presently rose and said, "Good night," disappearing into another room.

"Is she staying with you?" asked John.

"Who--Fanny?--no, we live here together. She's getting married next week, poor kid, to a little blighter. Lord knows why she picked him--or why any girl marries at all."

"But--you're married!" said John, surprised.

She stared at him.

"Married--whatever makes you think that?"

"I thought Mr. Adams--"

Tilly interrupted him with a short laugh.

"You've been listening to gossip. Everybody says I'm going to marry him--but I say not. I'm not going to keep any man, and that's what marrying a man of genius means."

But John cared nothing for the philosophy. He was relieved, for the last two hours he had felt an unmitigated bounder. A new cheerfulness swept over him, and Tilly noticed it.

"Why, you're waking up--you've been like a bear with a sore head!"

"I'm sorry," he said, simply.

"All right, Scissors!" She slid on to her knees at his feet. "And kissing's no harm," she sighed, looking up into his face. "And oh, I'm so lonely at times!"

She pulled his face downwards with her tiny hands, and ran her fingers through his hair. The sensation made him laugh as he slipped his arms under hers and drew her upwards until their lips met. In the darkness he could hear the beating of their hearts, and the silence singing in his ears.