Part 14 (1/2)
The entrance of Mr. Martel put an end to the discussion of the Bartletts.
Bitter as was his animosity toward the old lady, he would permit no disrespect to be shown her or hers in his presence. In the garish light of day he looked a trifle less imposing than he had on New Year's eve in the firelight. His long white hair hung straight and dry about his face; baggy wrinkles sagged under his eyes and under his chin. The shoulders that once proudly carried Mark Antony's s.h.i.+ning armor now supported a faded velvet breakfast jacket that showed its original color only in patches. But even in the intimacy of the breakfast hour Papa Claude preserved his air of distinction, the gracious condescension of a temporary sojourner in an environment from which he expected at any moment to take flight.
When Ca.s.s had gone to work and the girls were busy cleaning up the breakfast dishes, he linked his arm in Quin's and drew him into the living-room.
”I have never allowed myself to submit to the tyranny of time!” he said.
”The wine of living should be tasted slowly. Pull up a chair, my boy; I want to talk to you. You don't happen to have a cigar about you, do you?”
”Yes, sir. Here are two. Take 'em both. I got to cut out smoking; it makes me cough.”
Mr. Martel, protesting and accepting at the same time, sank into his large chair and bade Quin pull up a rocker. In the Martels' living-room all the chairs were rockers; so, in fact, were the table and the sofa, owing to missing castors.
”I am going to talk to you quite confidentially,” began Mr. Martel, giving himself up to the enjoyment of the hour. ”I am going to tell you of a new and fascinating adventure upon which I am about to embark. You have doubtless heard me speak of a very wealthy and talented young friend of mine--Mr. Harold Phipps?”
Quin admitted without enthusiasm that he had, and that he also knew him.
”Well, Mr. Phipps,--or Captain, as you probably know him,--after a short medical career has found it so totally distasteful that he is wisely returning to an earlier love. As soon as he gets out of the army he and I are going to collaborate on a play. Of course I have technic at my finger-tips. Construction, dramatic suspense, climax are second nature to me. But I confess I have a fatal handicap, one that has doubtless cost me my place at the head of American dramatists to-day. I have never been able to achieve colloquial dialogue! My style is too finished, you understand, my diction too perfect. Manager after manager has been on the verge of accepting a play, and been deterred solely on account of this too literary quality. I suffer from the excess of my virtue; you see?”
Quin did not see. Mr. Martel's words conveyed but the vaguest meaning to him. But it flattered his vanity to be the recipient of such a great man's confidence.
”Well, here's my point,” continued his host impressively. ”Mr. Phipps knows nothing of technic, of construction; but he has a sense for character and dialogue that amounts to genius. Now, suppose I construct a great plot, and he supplies great dialogue? What will be the inevitable result? A masterpiece, a little modern masterpiece!”
Mr. Martel, soaring on the wings of his imagination, failed to observe that his listener was not following.
”Does--does Miss Eleanor know about all this?” Quin asked.
”Alas, no. I had no opportunity to tell her. Ah, Mr. Graham, I must confess, it hurts me, it hurts me here,”--he indicated a grease-spot just below his vest pocket,--”to be separated from that dear child just when she needs me most. She should be already embarked in her great career.
Ellen Terry, Bernhardt, Rachel, all began their training very early. If she had been left to me she would be behind the footlights by now.”
”They'll never stand for her going on the stage,” said Quin authoritatively. It was astonis.h.i.+ng how intimate he felt with the Bartletts since he had put two of them to bed.
”Ah, my friend,” said Mr. Martel, shaking his head and smiling, ”what can be avoided whose end is purposed by the mighty G.o.ds? Eleanor will follow her destiny. She has the temperament, the voice, the figure--a trifle small, I grant you, but lithe, graceful, pliant as a reed.”
”Yes, I know what you mean,” Quin agreed ardently; ”you can tell that in her dancing.”
”But more than all, she has the great ambition, the consuming desire for self-expression, for----”
Quin's face clouded slightly and he again lost the thread of the discourse.
”Lots of girls are stage-struck,” he said presently, breaking in on Mr.
Martel's rhapsody. ”Miss Eleanor's young yet. Don't you believe she will get over it?”
”Young! Why, Mary Anderson was playing _Meg Merrilies_ when she was two years younger than Eleanor. I tell you, Quinby--you'll forgive my addressing you thus--I tell you, the girl will never get over it. She has inherited the histrionic gift from her mother--from me. The Bartletts have given her money, education, social position; but it remained for me--the despised Claude Martel--to give her the soul of an artist. And mark me,”--he paused effectively with a lifted forefinger,--”it will be Claude Martel who gives her her heart's desire. For years I have fostered in her a love for the drama. I have taken her to see great plays. I have taught her to read great lines, and above all I have fed her ambition.
The time was limited--a night here, a day there; but I planted a seed they cannot kill. It has grown, it will flower; no one can stop it now.”
The subject was one upon which Quin would fain have discoursed indefinitely, but a glance at his watch reminded him that the business of the day did not admit of further delay. He not only had an important errand to perform, but he must look for work. His exchequer, as usual, was very low and the need for replenis.h.i.+ng it was imperative.
When he reached Bartlett & Bangs' on the outskirts of the city, the big manufacturing plant was ominously still. The only sign of life about the place was at the wide entrance doors at the end of the yards, where a group of men were talking and gesticulating excitedly.
”What's the s.h.i.+ndy?” Quin asked a bystander.