Pelham Wodehouse - The Little Warrior

"'The Rose of America!'"

"I think that was the name of it."

"That's Ike Goble's show. He called me up on the phone about it half an hour ago. I promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow or the day after. And Jill's in that?"

"Yes. How about it? I mean, I don't know much about this sort of thing, but do you think it's the sort of thing Jill ought to be doing?"

Wally was moving restlessly about the room. Freddie's news had disquieted him. Mr Goble had a reputation.

"I know a lot about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." He scowled at the carpet. "Oh, damn everybody!"

Freddie paused to allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish, but Wally had apparently said his say. Freddie went on to point out an aspect of the matter which was troubling him greatly.

"I'm sure poor old Derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!"

Wally started so violently that for a moment Freddie was uneasy.

"I mean Underhill," he corrected himself hastily.

"Freddie," said Wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but I wish you would exit rapidly now! Thanks for coming and telling me, very good of you. This way out!"

"But, old man … !"

"Now what?"

"I thought we were going to discuss this binge and decide what to do and all that sort of thing."

"Some other time. I want to think about it."

"Oh, you will think about it?"

"Yes, I'll think about it."

"Topping! You see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'll probably hit something."

"I probably shall, if you don't go."

"Eh? Oh, ah, yes!" Freddie struggled into his coat. More than ever did the adult Wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of years gone by. "Well, cheerio!"

"Same to you!"

"You'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze, won't you? I'm at the Biltmore."

"Very good place to be. Go there now."

"Right ho! Well, toodle-oo!"

"The elevator is at the foot of the stairs," said Wally. "You press the bell and up it comes. You hop in and down you go. It's a great invention! Good night!"

"Oh, I say. One moment …"

"Good night! " said Wally.

He closed the door, and ran down the passage.

"Jill!" he called. He opened the bedroom window and stepped out. "Jill!"

There was no reply.

"Jill!" called Wally once again, but again there was no answer.

Wally walked to the parapet, and looked over. Below him the vastness of the city stretched itself in a great triangle, its apex the harbor, its sides the dull silver of the East and Hudson rivers. Directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the Metropolitan Tower reared its graceful height to the stars. And all around, in the windows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on which he stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, the unsleeping eyes of New York. It was a scene of which Wally, always sensitive to beauty, never tired: but tonight it had lost its appeal. A pleasant breeze from the Jersey shore greeted him with a quickening whisper of springtime and romance, but it did not lift the heaviness of his heart. He felt depressed and apprehensive.

Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smoked upon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later. The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard times over and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young men thought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million young women of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. In his apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle air from the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his Morning Telegraph with a resolve to walk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On the summit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercises to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upper windows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous and optimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And it was of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea. He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself, but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, had spoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling on the carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside. For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which had affected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.

The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due to the improvement in the weather. It had its source in a conversation which had taken place between himself and Jill's Uncle Chris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, Mr Pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully aware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby's sympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other's kindly receptiveness, he had told him all—his love for Jill, his hopes that some day it might be returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel of musical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby had listened with keen attention, and finally had made one of those luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only from your man of the world. It was Jill's girlish ambition, it seemed from Major Selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-picture world. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this, said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests, to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company of some good musical play, where she could learn from the best masters so much of the technique of the business. That done, she could go about her life-work, fortified and competent.

What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?

Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies.

There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.

Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.

"Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"

Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. He instanced other stars—lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with her thousands a week. There was no doubt about it—a girl's best friend was the movies.

"Observe," proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplify the whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonable doubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance and her charm … Which of these women whose names you see all along Broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started, with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. And then. … Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as I know nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferent to you … what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is a momentary pause. 'Not the Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs Peagrim. 'Yes, the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can you see her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I can see no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he had pictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, there would be the preliminaries."