Part 43 (2/2)
Why do I think of these things? If he cares so much for me, why doesn't he get me the money I asked for; instead of coming here-on a cattle train?
Whatever the reason, Puritanic training or fear of my errand, I walked slowly back and forth in front of the dingy little office of the theatre for some time before I conquered my irresolution and went desperately into the place.
They told me the manager was out, but after a little waiting I began to suspect that this was a dingy white lie, and so it proved; for when I lifted my veil and blus.h.i.+ng like a school-girl, told the people in the office who I was, at once some one scurried into a little den and presently came out to say that Mr. Blumenthal had ”returned.”
Oh, the manager's an important person in his way; he has theatres in every part of the country and is a busy man. But he was willing enough to see me when his stupid people had let him know that I was the Miss Wins.h.i.+p! Sorry as was my heart, I felt a thrill of triumph at this new proof of my fame and the power beauty gives.
When I entered his office, a bald little man turned from a litter of papers and looked at me with frank, business-like curiosity, as if he had a perfect right to do so-and indeed he had. I was not there to barter talent, but to rent my face. I understood that; but perhaps for this very reason my tongue tripped as it has seldom done of late when I blunderingly explained my errand.
”Guess we can do something for you,” he said promptly. ”Of course there's a horde of applicants, but you're exceptional; you know that.”
He smiled good-naturedly, and I felt at once relieved and indignant that he should treat as an everyday affair the step I had pondered during so many sleepless nights.
”Must remember though,” he added, ”on the stage a pa.s.sably pretty woman with a good nose, who has command of her features and can summon expression to them, often appears more beautiful than a G.o.ddess-faced stick. However, it's worth trying. I don't believe you're a stick. Ah,-- would you walk on?”
”I don't understand.”
”Stage slang; would you be willing to go on as a minor character--wear fine clothes and be looked at without saying much--at first, you know?
Or--of course your idea's to star-you got a backer?”
”I don't understand that, either.”
”Some one to pay the bills while you're being taught. To hire a company and a theatre as a gamble.”
”Impossible! I want money at once. I supposed that my--my beauty would command a position on the stage; it's certainly a bar to employment off it.”
”Of course it would; yes, yes, but not immediately. Why, even Mrs.
Farquhar had to have long and expensive training before she made her debut. And you know what a scandal there had been about her!
”Not that there's been any about you,” he added hastily, to my look of amazement. ”But you know--ah--public mention of any sort piques curiosity.
Er--what's your act?”
”My act?”
”Yes; what can you do?”
”Sing a little; nothing else. I thought of opera.”
This proposition didn't seem to strike him favourably.
”I don't know--” he hesitated. ”You have a wonderful speaking voice, and you've been advertised to beat the band. Who's your press agent?”
”I don't quite know what a press agent is; but I'm sure I never had any.”
”Well, you don't need any. Now that I see you--, but I fancied months ago that you were probably getting ready for this. Suppose you sing a little song for me.”
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