Chapter XIII: _The Ballet of Cupid_

The thunderstorm which ruined Jenny's hat destroyed summer. Blowy August twilights began to harass the leaves: darkness came earlier, and people, going home, hurried through the streets where lately they had lingered. Jenny's new green hat with bobbing cherries seemed to have strayed from the heart of a fresher season, and passers-by often turned to regard her as she strolled along Coventry Street toward the Orient. September brought louder winds and skies swollen with rain; but Jenny, rehearsing hard for a new ballet on the verge of production, had no leisure to grumble at chilly dusks and moonless journeys home to Hagworth Street.

The Orient was in a condition of excitement, for the new ballet, like a hundred before it, was expected to eclipse entirely the reputation of its predecessors. Two Ballerinas had arrived from Rome, winter migrants who in their lightness and warmth, would bring to London a thought of Italy. A Premier Danseur, more agile than a Picador, had traveled over from Madrid, and a fiery Maitre de Ballet had been persuaded to forsake Milan. Yet the first night of Cupid was hard upon the heels of a theater apparently utterly unprepared for any such date. The master carpenter was wrangling with the electrician. The electrician was insulting the wardrobe-mistress. The wig-maker was talking very rapidly in French to the costumier's draftsman, who was replying equally rapidly in Italian. From time to time the managing director shouted from the back of the Promenade to know the reason for some delay. The new Maitre de Ballet, having reduced most of the girls to hysteria by his alarming rages, abused his interpreter for misrepresenting his meaning. The Ballerinas from Rome were quarreling over precedence, and the Spanish Danseur was weeping because the letters of his name were smaller by four inches than those which announced on the playbills the advent of his feminine rivals. The call-boy was losing his youth. Everybody was talking at once, and the musical director was always severely punctual.

When the dress rehearsal lasted eleven hours, everybody connected with the Orient prophesied the doom of Cupid; and yet, on the twenty-first of September, the ballet was produced with truly conspicuous success. The theme was Love triumphant through the ages, from the saffron veils and hymeneal torches and flickering airs of Psyche's chamber, through Arthur's rose-wreathed court and the mimic passions of Versailles, down to modern London transformed by the boy god to a hanging garden of Babylon.

The third scene was a Fete Champetre after Watteau at sunset. Parterres of lavender and carnations bloomed at the base of statues that gradually disappeared in shadow as the sunset yielded to crimson lanterns. The scene was a harmony of gray and rose and tarnished silver. Love himself wore a vizard, and the dances were very slow and stately. The leisured progress of the scene gave Jenny her first opportunity to scan the audience. She saw a clear-cut face, dead white in the blue haze that hung over the stalls. She was conscious of an interest suddenly aroused, of an interest more profound than anything within her experience. For the first time the width of the orchestra seemed no barrier to intercourse. She felt she had only to lean gently forward from her place in the line to touch that unknown personality. She checked the impulse of greeting, but danced the rest of the movement as she had not danced for many months, with a joyful grace. When the _tempo di minuetto_ had quickened to the _pas seul_ of a Ballerina and the stage was still, Jenny stood far down in the corner nearest to the audience. Here, very close to the blaze of the footlights, the auditorium loomed almost impenetrable to eyes on the stage, but the man in the stalls, as if aware that she had lost him, struck a match. She saw his face flickering and, guided by the orange point of a cigar, whispered to Elsie Crauford, who was standing next to her:

"See that fellow in evening dress in the stalls?"

"Which one?"

"The one with the cigar--now--next to the fat man fanning himself. See? I bet you I get off with him to-night."

"You think everybody's gazing at you," murmured Elsie.

"No, I don't. But he is."

"Only because he can see you're making eyes at him."

"Oh, I'm not."

"Besides, how do you know? He isn't waving his programme nor nothing."

"No; but he'll be waiting by the stage-door."

"I thought you didn't care for fellows in evening dress," said Elsie.

"Well, can't you see any difference between that fellow and your Willie?"

"No, I can't."

"Fancy," said Jenny mockingly.

The Ballerina's final pose was being sustained amid loud applause. The ballet-master began to count the steps for the final movement. The stage manager's warning had sounded. The curtain fell, and eighty girls hurried helter-skelter to their rooms in order to change for the last scene.

"All down, ladies," cried the call-boy, and downstairs they trooped.

The curtain rose on Piccadilly Circus, gray and dripping. Somber figures danced in a saraband of shadows to a yearning melody of Tschaikovsky. The oboe gave its plaintive summons; like sea-birds calling, the rest of the wood-wind took up the appeal until it died away in a solitary flute, which sounded a joyful signal very sweet and low. A cymbal crashed: a golden ray of light came slanting on to the stone figure of Cupid, infusing him with life until, warm and radiant, he sprang from his pedestal to bewitch the sad scene. Roses tumbled from the clouds; lilies sprang up, quivering in the wind of dancing motion. A fountain gushed from the abandoned pedestal; the scene was a furnace of color. The Ballerinas led the _Corps de Ballet_ in a Bacchic procession round and round the twirling form of Cupid. With noise of bell and cymbal, they ran leaping through an enchanted Piccadilly seen in amber or cornelian. They might have stepped from a canvas of Titian dyed by the sun of a spent Venetian afternoon. Individual members of the audience began to applaud, and the isolated hand-claps sounded like castanets, until, as the dance became wilder, cheers floated on to the stage like the noise of waves heard suddenly over the brow of a hill.

Jenny, in a tunic of ivory silk sprayed with tawny roses, her hair bound with a fillet of gold, turned from the intoxication of the dance to search the stalls. Across the _arpeggios_ of the misted violins, his eyes burned a path. Yet, although she knew that he asked for a signal to show her consciousness of him, she could not give one. Had his glances seemed less important, she would have smiled; but since for the first time in her life a man stirred her, bashfulness caught her icily and, while her heart flamed, her eyes were cold. The curtain fell, rising again at once to let the bouquets fall softly round the silver shoes of the Ballerinas. The odor of stephanotis, mingled with the sharper perfume of carnations, seemed almost visible. The emotion of the audience struck the emotion of the dancers and kindled a triumph. The man in the stalls leaned forward, and the intensity of his gaze was to Jenny as real an offering as a bouquet. The curtain fell for the last time and as it touched the stage, instead of hurrying to her dressing-room, she stood a moment staring at what, for the first time, seemed an agent of deprivation not relief. Suddenly, too, she realized that she was very lightly clothed, and, as she walked slowly up the stone stairs to the dressing-room, was not sure whether she was sorry or glad.

In the crowd of chatting girls, Jenny began to call herself a fool, to rail at her weakness, and to ascribe the whole experience to the extra Guinness of a first night. Yet all the time she wondered if he would be waiting at the end of the court; there had been no wave of hand or flutter of a programme to confirm the hopes of imagination. Moreover, what was he really like? Outside he would be "awful," like the rest of them. Outside he would smirk and betray his sense of ownership. Outside he would destroy the magic that had waked her at last from the dull sleep of ordinary life. She began to hurry feverishly her undressing, and the more she hurried, the more she dreamed. At last, having, as it seemed, exhausted herself with speed, she sat down on the bench, and, looking round, perceived that the other girls were well in front of her. She lost confidence and wished for support in the adventure.

"Coming out to-night?" she asked Irene.

"If you like," said the latter.

Jenny, although she longed to be out of the theater, could not be quick that night. As she watched the other girls leave the dressing-room, she asked herself why she had wanted Irene to wait for her. If he were outside, Irene would spoil it all; for, together, they would giggle, and he would think what a shocking couple of girls he had fallen in with. She wished now that Irene would become impatient and go, but the latter seemed perfectly willing to dawdle, though by now they were the only two inhabitants of the dressing-room.

"Oh, do move yourself!"

"Oh, I can't, Irene. Whoever made these unnatural stays?"

"We shall get locked in," said Irene.

But Jenny was dressed at last, and together they passed out into the cool September night. He was there. Instinctively Jenny recognized the careless figure in opera hat and full black coat. She drew back and clutched her friend's wrist, aware of hot blushes that surely must flame visibly in the darkness.

"Who's he?" whispered Irene.

"Who's who?"

"The fellow by himself at the end of the court?"

"How ever on earth should I know? Do you think I'm a walking _Answers_?"

The two girls passed him by. He hesitated; then, as if by an effort, raised his hat.

Irene giggled foolishly.

"How d'ye do, Tootoose?" said Jenny, self-possessed through his embarrassment.

"I liked your dancing," he said simply.

"Did you? Who ca----?" She stopped. Somehow the formula was inadequate.

"Can't we go and have supper somewhere?" he asked.

"Just as _you_ like."

"Where shall we go?"

"It doesn't matter to me," said Jenny.

"Gatti's?"

"Um."

"But do you like Gatti's?" persisted the stranger.

"It's all right."

"We can all squash into a hansom, can't we?"

"Rather," said Jenny.

They rattled off to Gatti's, and were soon sitting on red velvet, rulers of gayety.

"What's your name, Claude?" inquired Jenny.

"Raymond," he said.

"Oo-er! What a soppy name!"

The young man hesitated. He looked for a moment deep into Jenny's eyes: perceived, it may be, her honesty, and said:

"Well, as a matter of fact, my real name is Maurice--Maurice Avery."

"Oh, and he wasn't going to tell us," cried Jenny, clapping her hands. "We shall have to call him careful Willie."

"No, I say, really, do forgive me for being a silly ass."

"Now he's being rude to himself."

Here a fat waiter interposed with a dish, and Avery had time to recover himself. Meanwhile, Jenny regarded him. She liked his fresh complexion and deep-blue eyes. She liked better still his weak, girlish mouth and white teeth. She liked best of all his manner, which was not too easy, although it carried some of the confidence of popularity.

"Whatever made you come on the first night? I think the ballet's rotten on the first night," said Jenny.

"I'm awfully glad I did. But, as a matter of fact, I had to. I'm a critic. I'm going to write a notice of the ballet for the _Point of View_."

Something in the intonation of this announcement would have warned anybody of the world that Avery's judgment had not long ago been demanded for the first time.

"A reporter?" asked Jenny.

"Well, a sort of reporter."

"You don't look much like a reporter. I knew a reporter once who was going to photograph me in a bathing-dress for _Fluffy Bits_. But his flat was too high up for this little girl."

Maurice Avery wished that Jenny were alone. He would in that case have attempted to explain the difference between a reporter and a dramatic critic. Under the circumstances, however, he felt that the subject should be dropped, and turned politely to Irene.

"You're not talking much."

"Ah, but I think the more."

The conversation became difficult, almost as difficult as the _macaroni au gratin_ which the three of them were eating. Maurice wished more than ever that Irene was out of the way. He possessed a great sense of justice which compelled him to be particularly polite to her, although his eyes were all for Jenny. The unsatisfactory meal evaporated in coffee, and presently they stood on the pavement.

"I say, I ought to drive you girls home," said Maurice. "But to-night I absolutely must get back and finish this notice in time to catch the three o'clock post. Couldn't we all three meet to-morrow?"

Inwardly he lamented the politeness which led him to include Irene in the suggested reunion.

"All right, Willie Brains," said Jenny.

"Where?"

"Oh, I don't know. Outside the Palace. Good night."

They shook hands discreetly, and though Maurice held Jenny's hand longer than was necessary, he held Irene's just as long in case she might have noticed and felt hurt by the greater attention paid to her friend.

Jenny and Irene turned in the direction of the Tube station by Leicester Square.

"He might have stood us a cab home," complained the latter.

"Why should he?" said Jenny.

Irene looked at her in perplexity.

"You're usually the one to get all you can out of a fellow. And it was your turn to ask to-night."

"I like Maurice," Jenny replied. "And what's more, I think I shall like him again to-morrow."

The afternoon arrived. Jenny and Irene, walking down Shaftesbury Avenue, perceived Maurice gazing at the photographs outside the Palace.

"There he is," cried Jenny.

Avery turned round.

"You _are_ punctual," he exclaimed.

Tea, at whatever tea-shop they drank it, was dull. The acquaintance did not seem to advance.

When it was time for the girls to go into the theater, Maurice said desperately:

"Could I drive you--both home to-night?"

At the last moment he was afraid to exclude Irene. "I'll wait outside," he went on, "till you come out."

Rain fell that night, and Maurice was glad when, along the court, he could see them strolling towards him.

"A hansom, eh?" he said. "Or let's have a drink first."

In the Monico, they sat round a table and nothing mattered to Maurice and Jenny, except eyes. The room seemed full of eyes, not the eyes of its chattering population, but their own. Never before had a London night seemed so gay. Never before had _creme de menthe_ been dyed so richly green. They began to discuss love and jealousy. As Romeo hesitated before he joined the fatal masquerade, Maurice was seized with an impulse to make himself as poor a thing as possible.

"I couldn't be jealous," he vowed. "I think everybody can be in love with two or three people at once."

"I don't," said Jenny.

"Oh, yes, it's absurd to be jealous. Quite absurd. Different people suit different moods. The only trouble is when they meet."

He had caught hold of Jenny's hand while they were speaking, and now she drew it away.

"I think I know what he means," said Irene.

"You think so," scoffed Jenny. "You! You're potty, then."

Maurice felt sorry for Irene and weakly took her hand. She let it recline in his listlessly. It was cold and damp after Jenny's vitality.

"If I loved a man," said Jenny, "I should be most shocking jealous."

"What would you do if you met him with another girl?" asked Maurice.

"I should never speak to him again."

"Wouldn't that be rather foolish?"

"Foolish or not, that's what I should do."

"Well, I'm not jealous," vowed Maurice. "I never have been."

"Then you're silly," asserted Jenny. "Jealous! I'm terribly jealous."

"It's a mistake," said Maurice. "It spoils everything and turns a pleasure into a nuisance."

"I don't think I'm jealous of you-know-who," put in Irene.

"Oh, him and you, you're both mad!" exclaimed Jenny. "But if ever I love a man----"

"Yes," said Maurice eagerly.

Two Frenchmen at the next table were shuffling the dominoes. For Maurice the noise had a strange significance, while he waited for the hypothesis.

Jenny stared away up to the chandeliers.

"Well?" said he. Somebody knocked over a glass. Jenny shivered.

"It's getting late," she said.

"What about driving home?" asked Maurice.

Outside it was pouring. They squeezed into a hansom cab. Again his politeness seemed bound to mar the evening.

"Let's see. Irene lives at Camden Town. We'd better drive to Islington first and leave Jenny, eh?"

Then Jenny said quite unaccountably to herself and Irene:

"No, thanks. We'll drive Irene home first."

Maurice looked at her quickly, but she gave no sign of any plan, nor did she betray a hint of the emotion he would have been glad to see.

With the glass let down against the rain, they were forced very near to one another as the horse trotted along Tottenham Court Road shining with puddles in the lamplight.

"This is jolly," said Maurice, bravely putting an arm round each waist and holding Irene a little closer for fear she should feel that she was the undesired third person. Having done this, he felt entitled to kiss Jenny first and turned towards her lips. She drew back, whispering:

"Ah, so near and yet for far."

Then, since he had offered to kiss Jenny, he felt bound to kiss Irene. The latter allowed the compliment as she would have let him pick up a handkerchief. Arrangements were made to meet again on the morrow at the same place, and at last the cab was pulled up some two hundred yards from Irene's house. Maurice jumped out and shook hands very politely and waved to her as she ran up a side-street. Then he sat back beside Jenny in the cab. The driver turned his horse and for a minute or two they traveled silently through the rain and lamplight.

"Jenny," he whispered, "Jenny, won't you kiss me now?"

She yielded herself to his arms, and while the wind rattled the glass shield, while the raindrops danced in the road before them, while lights faltered and went out in passing window-panes, Jenny nestled closer, ardent and soft and passionate.

"Are you glad we're alone?" he whispered.

"Rather."

"I suppose you knew I've been burning all the time to sit with you like this?"

"No."

"Oh, I have, Jenny. Jenny, I saw you when you first came on the stage, and afterwards I never saw anyone else. I wish you lived a thousand miles away."

"Why?"

"Because then we should travel together for a thousand hours."

"You date."

"You're so delightful."

"Am I?"

"I wish Irene weren't coming to-morrow. We shall have such a lot to talk about," he vowed.

"Shall we?"

"What on earth made me ask her?"

"It's done now."

Maurice sighed. Then he caught her close again and breathless they sat till Jenny suddenly cried:

"Gee! Here's Hagworth Street. Goodnight!"

At the end of the road, under the tall plane tree where once Jenny had danced, they sat in the old hansom cab, while the steam rose in clouds from the horse and the puddles sang with rain and the driver smoked meditatively. The world was fading away in sounds of traffic very remote. The wetness of the night severed them from humanity. They needed no blue Pacific haven to enrich their love. They perceived no omen in the desolation of the London night.

"What times we shall have together," said Maurice.

"Shall we?" the girl replied.

"It's all happened so exactly right."

"It does sometimes," said Jenny.

The horse pawed the road, impatient of the loitering. The driver knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the roof.

"I _must_ go now," she said.

"Must you?"

"Yes."

"One more kiss."

To Maurice each kiss of Jenny's seemed a first kiss.

"Isn't it glorious?" he exclaimed.

"What?"

"Oh, everything--life and London and you and I."

He stood in the road and lifted her on to the pavement.

"Good night, my Jenny."

"Good night."

"To-morrow?"

"Rather."

"Good night. Bless you."

"Bless _you_," she murmured. Then, surprised by herself, she ran through the rain as swift as the shadow of a cloud, while the horse trotted southward with a dreaming passenger.