“Ain’t it? Say, have you seen this hunk of nothin’ I’ve got up to my place? Have you seen it? God, go up and take a look at it! I get a bellyache every time I go near it. Turnin’ them away, though. Well, here today and hell tomorrow.”
His treasurer came to meet Mark in the glittering vestibule where a few men smoked forlornly against the blue panels. Mark glanced at the slip showing the receipts and laughed, commenced talking of “Captain Salvador.” His force gathered about him. Gurdy strolled away. A petty laughter rattled out of the doors and Gurdy passed in. The lit stage showed him a sprinkle of heads on the sweep of the seats. There was no one in the boxes. Two ushers were rolling dice by the white arch of the smokeroom. A couple of women left the poor audience and hurried by the boy dejectedly. He walked out through the vestibule where more men were collecting around Mark’s height and the swift happiness of his face as he talked of next week. Gurdy marched along the proud front of the theatre and turned into the alley that led from street to street. One bulb shone above the stage door and sent down a glistening coat for the large black motor standing there. Gurdy kept close to the other wall. There was a woman smoking in the limousine. The spark made a heart inside the shadow. Gurdy stared and was eaten by rage against her. He stood staring.
The stage door opened. The few performers began to leave. They moved up or down the alley to join the bright motion of the glowing streets outside. Their feet stirred the pools of rain on the pavement. Their voices ebbed and tinkled in the lofty alley. At last a slim man in a grey coat ran from the door and jumped into the black motor which moved, now, and slid away, jolted into the southward street. Gurdy was moving, too, when other lights woke high on the brick wall. An iron shutter grated, opening, and men appeared in the fissure. They bellowed down to the old doorkeeper, “Ain’t them guys from Cain’s got here, yet?”
“They ain’t to come ’til eleven fifteen.”
“Hell, it’s after!”
The stage hands cursed merrily. One of them mimicked Rand’s English accent to much applause. Then the great drays from the storehouse came grinding along the alley in a steam as the horses snorted. The stage hands and carters swore at each other. The vast screens were slung and handed down. The fleet quality of this failure bit Gurdy. He leaned dreary on the wall and saw Mark standing close to him, face raised to the lights, an odd small grin twisting his mouth. Mark did not move or speak.
He was thinking confusedly of many things. It was hard to think at all. One of the stage hands whistled a waltz that people liked. The melody caught at Mark’s mind and drew it away from the moment, forward and back. He hunted justice. Things went wrong. People weren’t kind. Next week the new play would glitter and people would applaud. Gurdy might come to write plays, the best possible plays. He watched the wreck melt. People would forget this. It would sink into shadow. No one would understand but they would forget. It was trivial in his long success. It horribly hurt him. He had been fooled in love. It was laughable. Things happened so. One must go on and forget about them. One of the horses neighed and stamped. A blue spark jetted up from the pavement, above a pool.
“Here goes nothin’,” a stage hand yelled, letting down the last screen. The iron shutter closed over the laughter. The carters whined and the drays were backed down the alley. The rain fell silently between Mark the red of the wall making it purple—a wonderful colour. The guiding lights went out. Mark sighed and took Gurdy’s arm. They walked together toward the gleaming crowd of the street. Yet feeling this warmth beside him Mark walked without much pain.
THE END