A Man of Means Read online

  THE EPISODE OF THE THEATRICAL VENTURE

  Third of a Series of Six Stories [First published in _Pictorial Review_,July 1916]

  It was one of those hard, nubbly rolls. The best restaurants charge yousixpence for having the good sense not to eat them. It hit Roland Blekewith considerable vehemence on the bridge of the nose. For the momentRoland fancied that the roof of the Regent Grill-room must have fallenin; and, as this would automatically put an end to the party, he was notaltogether sorry. He had never been to a theatrical supper-party before,and within five minutes of his arrival at the present one he hadbecome afflicted with an intense desire never to go to a theatricalsupper-party again. To be a success at these gay gatherings one mustpossess dash; and Roland, whatever his other sterling qualities, was alittle short of dash.

  The young man on the other side of the table was quite nice about it.While not actually apologizing, he went so far as to explain that it was"old Gerry" whom he had had in his mind when he started the roll onits course. After a glance at old Gerry--a chinless child of aboutnineteen--Roland felt that it would be churlish to be angry with a youngman whose intentions had been so wholly admirable. Old Gerry had one ofthose faces in which any alteration, even the comparatively limitedone which a roll would be capable of producing, was bound to be for thebetter. He smiled a sickly smile and said that it didn't matter.

  The charming creature who sat on his assailant's left, however, took amore serious view of the situation.

  "Sidney, you make me tired," she said severely. "If I had thought youdidn't know how to act like a gentleman I wouldn't have come here withyou. Go away somewhere and throw bread at yourself, and ask Mr. Bleke tocome and sit by me. I want to talk to him."

  That was Roland's first introduction to Miss Billy Verepoint.

  "I've been wanting to have a chat with you all the evening, Mr. Bleke,"she said, as Roland blushingly sank into the empty chair. "I've heardsuch a lot about you."

  What Miss Verepoint had heard about Roland was that he had two hundredthousand pounds and apparently did not know what to do with it.

  "In fact, if I hadn't been told that you would be here, I shouldn't havecome to this party. Can't stand these gatherings of nuts in May as ageneral rule. They bore me stiff."

  Roland hastily revised his first estimate of the theatrical profession.Shallow, empty-headed creatures some of them might be, no doubt, butthere were exceptions. Here was a girl of real discernment--a thoughtfulstudent of character--a girl who understood that a man might sit at asupper-party without uttering a word and might still be a man of parts.

  "I'm afraid you'll think me very outspoken--but that's me all over. Allmy friends say, 'Billy Verepoint's a funny girl: if she likes any oneshe just tells them so straight out; and if she doesn't like any one shetells them straight out, too.'"

  "And a very admirable trait," said Roland, enthusiastically.

  Miss Verepoint sighed. "P'raps it is," she said pensively, "but I'mafraid it's what has kept me back in my profession. Managers don't likeit: they think girls should be seen and not heard."

  Roland's blood boiled. Managers were plainly a dastardly crew.

  "But what's the good of worrying," went on Miss Verepoint, with a bravebut hollow laugh. "Of course, it's wearing, having to wait when one hasgot as much ambition as I have; but they all tell me that my chance isbound to come some day."

  The intense mournfulness of Miss Verepoint's expression seemed toindicate that she anticipated the arrival of the desired day not lessthan sixty years hence. Roland was profoundly moved. His chivalrousnature was up in arms. He fell to wondering if he could do anything tohelp this victim of managerial unfairness. "You don't mind my going onabout my troubles, do you?" asked Miss Verepoint, solicitously. "One soseldom meets anybody really sympathetic."

  Roland babbled fervent assurances, and she pressed his hand gratefully.

  "I wonder if you would care to come to tea one afternoon," she said.

  "Oh, rather!" said Roland. He would have liked to put it in a morepolished way but he was almost beyond speech.

  "Of course, I know what a busy man you are----"

  "No, no!"

  "Well, I should be in to-morrow afternoon, if you cared to look in."

  Roland bleated gratefully.

  "I'll write down the address for you," said Miss Verepoint, suddenlybusinesslike.

  * * * * *

  Exactly when he committed himself to the purchase of the WindsorTheater, Roland could never say. The idea seemed to come into existencefully-grown, without preliminary discussion. One moment it was not--thenext it was. His recollections of the afternoon which he spent drinkinglukewarm tea and punctuating Miss Verepoint's flow of speech with"yes's" and "no's" were always so thoroughly confused that he never kneweven whose suggestion it was.

  The purchase of a West-end theater, when one has the necessary cash,is not nearly such a complicated business as the layman might imagine.Roland was staggered by the rapidity with which the transaction wascarried through. The theater was his before he had time to realize thathe had never meant to buy the thing at all. He had gone into the officesof Mr. Montague with the intention of making an offer for the lease for,say, six months; and that wizard, in the space of less than an hour, hadnot only induced him to sign mysterious documents which made him soleproprietor of the house, but had left him with the feeling that he haddone an extremely acute stroke of business. Mr. Montague had dabbled inmany professions in his time, from street peddling upward, but what hewas really best at was hypnotism.

  Altho he felt, after the spell of Mr. Montague's magnetism waswithdrawn, rather like a nervous man who has been given a large babyto hold by a strange woman who has promptly vanished round the corner,Roland was to some extent consoled by the praise bestowed upon him byMiss Verepoint. She said it was much better to buy a theater than torent it, because then you escaped the heavy rent. It was specious,but Roland had a dim feeling that there was a flaw somewhere in thereasoning; and it was from this point that a shadow may be said to havefallen upon the brightness of the venture.

  He would have been even less self-congratulatory if he had known theWindsor Theater's reputation. Being a comparative stranger in themetropolis, he was unaware that its nickname in theatrical circleswas "The Mugs' Graveyard"--a title which had been bestowed upon it notwithout reason. Built originally by a slightly insane old gentleman,whose principal delusion was that the public was pining for a constantsupply of the Higher Drama, and more especially those specimens ofthe Higher Drama which flowed practically without cessation from therestless pen of the insane old gentleman himself, the Windsor Theaterhad passed from hand to hand with the agility of a gold watch in agathering of race-course thieves. The one anxiety of the unhappy man whofound himself, by some accident, in possession of the Windsor Theater,was to pass it on to somebody else. The only really permanent tenant itever had was the representative of the Official Receiver.

  Various causes were assigned for the phenomenal ill-luck of the theater,but undoubtedly the vital objection to it as a Temple of Drama lay inthe fact that nobody could ever find the place where it was hidden.Cabmen shook their heads on the rare occasions when they were asked totake a fare there. Explorers to whom a stroll through the Australianbush was child's-play, had been known to spend an hour on its trail andfinish up at the point where they had started.

  It was precisely this quality of elusiveness which had first attractedMr. Montague. He was a far-seeing man, and to him the topographicaladvantages of the theater were enormous. It was further from afire-station than any other building of the same insurance value inLondon, even without having regard to the mystery which enveloped itswhereabouts. Often after a good dinner he would lean comfortably backin his chair and see in the smoke of his cigar a vision of the WindsorTheater blazing merrily, while distracted firemen galloped madly allover London, vainly endeavoring to get some one to direct them to thescene of the conflagration. So Mr. Montague bought t
he theater for amere song, and prepared to get busy.

  Unluckily for him, the representatives of the various fire offices withwhich he had effected his policies got busy first. The generous fellowsinsisted upon taking off his shoulders the burden of maintaining thefireman whose permanent presence in a theater is required by law.Nothing would satisfy them but to install firemen of their own and paytheir salaries. This, to a man in whom the instincts of the phoenixwere so strongly developed as they were in Mr. Montague, was distinctlydisconcerting. He saw himself making no profit on the deal--a thingwhich had never happened to him before.

  And then Roland Bleke occurred, and Mr. Montague's belief that his racewas really chosen was restored. He sold the Windsor Theater to Rolandfor twenty-five thousand pounds. It was fifteen thousand pounds morethan he himself had given for it, and this very satisfactory profitmitigated the slight regret which he felt when it came to transferringto Roland the insurance policies. To have effected policies amountingto rather more than seventy thousand pounds on a building so notoriouslyvalueless as the Windsor Theater had been an achievement of which Mr.Montague was justly proud, and it seemed sad to him that so much earnestendeavor should be thrown away.

  * * * * *

  Over the little lunch with which she kindly allowed Roland to entertainher, to celebrate the purchase of the theater, Miss Verepoint outlinedher policy.

  "What we must put up at that theater," she announced, "is a revue.A revue," repeated Miss Verepoint, making, as she spoke, littlecalculations on the back of the menu, "we could run for about fifteenhundred a week--or, say, two thousand."

  Saying two thousand, thought Roland to himself, is not quite the same aspaying two thousand, so why should she stint herself?

  "I know two boys who could write us a topping revue," said MissVerepoint. "They'd spread themselves, too, if it was for me. They're inlove with me--both of them. We'd better get in touch with them at once."

  To Roland, there seemed to be something just the least bit sinisterabout the sound of that word "touch," but he said nothing.

  "Why, there they are--lunching over there!" cried Miss Verepoint,pointing to a neighboring table. "Now, isn't that lucky?"

  To Roland the luck was not quite so apparent, but he made no demur toMiss Verepoint's suggestion that they should be brought over to theirtable.

  The two boys, as to whose capabilities to write a topping revue MissVerepoint had formed so optimistic an estimate, proved to be well-grownlads of about forty-five and forty, respectively. Of the two, Rolandthought that perhaps R. P. de Parys was a shade the more obnoxious,but a closer inspection left him with the feeling that these finedistinctions were a little unfair with men of such equal talents.Bromham Rhodes ran his friend so close that it was practically a deadheat. They were both fat and somewhat bulgy-eyed. This was due to thefact that what revue-writing exacts from its exponents is the constantassimilation of food and drink. Bromham Rhodes had the largest appetitein London; but, on the other hand, R. P. de Parys was a better drinker.

  "Well, dear old thing!" said Bromham Rhodes.

  "Well, old child!" said R. P. de Parys.

  Both these remarks were addressed to Miss Verepoint. The talented pairappeared to be unaware of Roland's existence.

  Miss Verepoint struck the business note. "Now you stop, boys," she said."Tie weights to yourselves and sink down into those chairs. I want youtwo lads to write a revue for me."

  "Delighted!" said Bromham Rhodes; "but----"

  "There is the trifling point to be raised first----" said R. P. deParys.

  "Where is the money coming from?" said Bromham Rhodes.

  "My friend, Mr. Bleke, is putting up the money," said Miss Verepoint,with dignity. "He has taken the Windsor Theater."

  The interest of the two authors in their host, till then languid,increased with a jerk. "Has he? By Jove!" they cried. "We must gettogether and talk this over."

  It was Roland's first experience of a theatrical talking-over, and henever forgot it. Two such talkers-over as Bromham Rhodes and R. P. deParys were scarcely to be found in the length and breadth of theatricalLondon. Nothing, it seemed, could the gifted pair even begin to think ofdoing without first discussing the proposition in all its aspects. Theamount of food which Roland found himself compelled to absorb during thecourse of these debates was appalling. Discussions which began at lunchwould be continued until it was time to order dinner; and then, aslikely as not, they would have to sit there till supper-time in order tothrash the question thoroughly out.

  * * * * *

  The collection of a cast was a matter even more complicated than theactual composition of the revue. There was the almost insuperabledifficulty that Miss Verepoint firmly vetoed every name suggested. Itseemed practically impossible to find any man or woman in all Englandor America whose peculiar gifts or lack of them would not interferewith Miss Verepoint's giving a satisfactory performance of the principalrole. It was all very perplexing to Roland; but as Miss Verepoint was anexpert in theatrical matters, he scarcely felt entitled to question herviews.

  It was about this time that Roland proposed to Miss Verepoint. Thepassage of time and the strain of talking over the revue had to acertain extent moderated his original fervor. He had shaded off froma passionate devotion, through various diminishing tints of regard forher, into a sort of pale sunset glow of affection. His principal reasonfor proposing was that it seemed to him to be in the natural order ofevents. Her air towards him had become distinctly proprietorial. She nowcalled him "Roly-poly" in public--a proceeding which left him with mixedfeelings. Also, she had taken to ordering him about, which, as everybodyknows, is an unmistakable sign of affection among ladies of thetheatrical profession. Finally, in his chivalrous way, Roland hadbegun to feel a little apprehensive lest he might be compromising MissVerepoint. Everybody knew that he was putting up the money for therevue in which she was to appear; they were constantly seen together atrestaurants; people looked arch when they spoke to him about her. He hadto ask himself: was he behaving like a perfect gentleman? The answer wasin the negative. He took a cab to her flat and proposed before he couldrepent of his decision.

  She accepted him. He was not certain for a moment whether he was glador sorry. "But I don't want to get married," she went on, "until I havejustified my choice of a profession. You will have to wait until I havemade a success in this revue."

  Roland was shocked to find himself hugely relieved at this concession.

  The revue took shape. There did apparently exist a handful of artistesto whom Miss Verepoint had no objection, and these--a scrubby butconfident lot--were promptly engaged. Sallow Americans sprang fromnowhere with songs, dances, and ideas for effects. Tousled-haired scenicartists wandered in with model scenes under their arms. A great cloud ofchorus-ladies settled upon the theater like flies. Even Bromham Rhodesand R. P. de Parys--those human pythons--showed signs of activity. Theycornered Roland one day near Swan and Edgar's, steered him into thePiccadilly Grill-room and, over a hearty lunch, read him extracts froma brown-paper-covered manuscript which, they informed him, was the firstact.

  It looked a battered sort of manuscript and, indeed, it had every rightto be. Under various titles and at various times, Bromham Rhodes' and R.P. de Parys' first act had been refused by practically every responsiblemanager in London. As "Oh! What a Life!" it had failed to satisfy thedirectors of the Empire. Re-christened "Wow-Wow!" it had been rejectedby the Alhambra. The Hippodrome had refused to consider it, even underthe name of "Hullo, Cellar-Flap!" It was now called, "Pass Along,Please!" and, according to its authors, was a real revue.

  Roland was to learn, as the days went on, that in the world in which hewas moving everything was real revue that was not a stunt or a corkingeffect. He floundered in a sea of real revue, stunts, and corkingeffects. As far as he could gather, the main difference between thesethings was that real revue was something which had been stolen from someprevious English production,
whereas a stunt or a corking effect wassomething which had been looted from New York. A judicious blend ofthese, he was given to understand, constituted the sort of thing thepublic wanted.

  Rehearsals began before, in Roland's opinion, his little army wasproperly supplied with ammunition. True, they had the first act, buteven the authors agreed that it wanted bringing up-to-date in parts.They explained that it was, in a manner of speaking, their life-work,that they had actually started it about ten years ago when they werecareless lads. Inevitably, it was spotted here and there with smarttopical hits of the early years of the century; but that, they said,would be all right. They could freshen it up in a couple of evenings; itwas simply a matter of deleting allusions to pro-Boers and substitutinglines about Marconi shares and mangel-wurzels. "It'll be all right,"they assured Roland; "this is real revue."

  In times of trouble there is always a point at which one may say,"Here is the beginning of the end." This point came with Roland at thecommencement of the rehearsals. Till then he had not fully realizedthe terrible nature of the production for which he had made himselfresponsible. Moreover, it was rehearsals which gave him his first clearinsight into the character of Miss Verepoint.

  Miss Verepoint was not at her best at rehearsals. For the first time, ashe watched her, Roland found himself feeling that there was a case tobe made out for the managers who had so consistently kept her in thebackground. Miss Verepoint, to use the technical term, threw her weightabout. There were not many good lines in the script of act one of "PassAlong, Please!" but such as there were she reached out for andgrabbed away from their owners, who retired into corners, scowling andmuttering, like dogs robbed of bones. She snubbed everybody, Rolandincluded.

  * * * * *

  Roland sat in the cold darkness of the stalls and watched her,panic-stricken. Like an icy wave, it had swept over him what marriagewith this girl would mean. He suddenly realised how essentially domestichis instincts really were. Life with Miss Verepoint would mean perpetualdinners at restaurants, bread-throwing suppers, motor-rides--everythingthat he hated most. Yet, as a man of honor, he was tied to her. If therevue was a success, she would marry him--and revues, he knew, werealways successes. At that very moment there were six "best revues inLondon," running at various theaters. He shuddered at the thought thatin a few weeks there would be seven.

  He felt a longing for rural solitude. He wanted to be alone byhimself for a day or two in a place where there were no papers withadvertisements of revues, no grill-rooms, and, above all, no Miss BillyVerepoint. That night he stole away to a Norfolk village, where, inhappier days, he had once spent a Summer holiday--a peaceful, primitiveplace where the inhabitants could not have told real revue from acorking effect.

  Here, for the space of a week, Roland lay in hiding, while his quiveringnerves gradually recovered tone. He returned to London happier, but alittle apprehensive. Beyond a brief telegram of farewell, he had notcommunicated with Miss Verepoint for seven days, and experience hadmade him aware that she was a lady who demanded an adequate amount ofattention.

  That his nervous system was not wholly restored to health was borne inupon him as he walked along Piccadilly on his way to his flat; for,when somebody suddenly slapped him hard between the shoulder-blades, heuttered a stifled yell and leaped in the air.

  Turning to face his assailant, he found himself meeting the genialgaze of Mr. Montague, his predecessor in the ownership of the WindsorTheater.

  Mr. Montague was effusively friendly, and, for some mysterious reason,congratulatory.

  "You've done it, have you? You pulled it off, did you? And in thefirst month--by George! And I took you for the plain, ordinary mug ofcommerce! My boy, you're as deep as they make 'em. Who'd have thoughtit, to look at you? It was the greatest idea any one ever had andstaring me in the face all the time and I never saw it! But I don'tgrudge it to you--you deserve it my boy! You're a nut!"

  "I really don't know what you mean."

  "Quite right, my boy!" chuckled Mr. Montague. "You're quite right tokeep it up, even among friends. It don't do to risk anything, and theleast said soonest mended."

  He went on his way, leaving Roland completely mystified.

  Voices from his sitting-room, among which he recognized the high note ofMiss Verepoint, reminded him of the ordeal before him. He entered withwhat he hoped was a careless ease of manner, but his heart was beatingfast. Since the opening of rehearsals he had acquired a wholesomerespect for Miss Verepoint's tongue. She was sitting in his favoritechair. There were also present Bromham Rhodes and R. P. de Parys, whohad made themselves completely at home with a couple of his cigars andwhisky from the oldest bin.

  "So here you are at last!" said Miss Verepoint, querulously. "The valettold us you were expected back this morning, so we waited. Where onearth have you been to, running away like this, without a word?"

  "I only went----"

  "Well, it doesn't matter where you went. The main point is, what are yougoing to do about it?"

  "We thought we'd better come along and talk it over," said R. P. deParys.

  "Talk what over?" said Roland: "the revue?"

  "Oh, don't try and be funny, for goodness' sake!" snapped MissVerepoint. "It doesn't suit you. You haven't the right shape of head.What do you suppose we want to talk over? The theater, of course."

  "What about the theater?"

  Miss Verepoint looked searchingly at him. "Don't you ever read thepapers?"

  "I haven't seen a paper since I went away."

  "Well, better have it quick and not waste time breaking it gently,"said Miss Verepoint. "The theater's been burned down--that's what'shappened."

  "Burned down?"

  "Burned down!" repeated Roland.

  "That's what I said, didn't I? The suffragettes did it. They left copiesof 'Votes for Women' about the place. The silly asses set fire to twoother theaters as well, but they happened to be in main thoroughfaresand the fire-brigade got them under control at once. I suppose theycouldn't find the Windsor. Anyhow, it's burned to the ground and what wewant to know is what are you going to do about it?"

  Roland was much too busy blessing the good angels of Kingsway to replyat once. R. P. de Parys, sympathetic soul, placed a wrong constructionon his silence.

  "Poor old Roly!" he said. "It's quite broken him up. The best thing wecan do is all to go off and talk it over at the Savoy, over a bit oflunch."

  "Well," said Miss Verepoint, "what are you going to do--rebuild theWindsor or try and get another theater?"

  * * * * *

  The authors were all for rebuilding the Windsor. True, it would taketime, but it would be more satisfactory in every way. Besides, at thistime of the year it would be no easy matter to secure another theater ata moment's notice.

  To R. P. de Parys and Bromham Rhodes the destruction of the WindsorTheater had appeared less in the light of a disaster than as a directintervention on the part of Providence. The completion of that tiresomesecond act, which had brooded over their lives like an ugly cloud, couldnow be postponed indefinitely.

  "Of course," said R. P. de Parys, thoughtfully, "our contract with youmakes it obligatory on you to produce our revue by a certain date--but Idare say, Bromham, we could meet Roly there, couldn't we?"

  "Sure!" said Rhodes. "Something nominal, say a further five hundred onaccount of fees would satisfy us. I certainly think it would be betterto rebuild the Windsor, don't you, R. P.?"

  "I do," agreed R. P. de Parys, cordially. "You see, Roly, our revue hasbeen written to fit the Windsor. It would be very difficult to alter itfor production at another theater. Yes, I feel sure that rebuilding theWindsor would be your best course."

  There was a pause.

  "What do you think, Roly-poly?" asked Miss Verepoint, as Roland made nosign.

  "Nothing would delight me more than to rebuild the Windsor, or to takeanother theater, or do anything else to oblige," he said, cheerfully."Unfortunately, I have no mor
e money to burn."

  It was as if a bomb had suddenly exploded in the room. A dreadfulsilence fell upon his hearers. For the moment no one spoke. R. P. deParys woke with a start out of a beautiful dream of prawn curry andBromham Rhodes forgot that he had not tasted food for nearly two hours.Miss Verepoint was the first to break the silence.

  "Do you mean to say," she gasped, "that you didn't insure the place?"

  Roland shook his head. The particular form in which Miss Verepoint hadput the question entitled him, he felt, to make this answer.

  "Why didn't you?" Miss Verepoint's tone was almost menacing.

  "Because it did not appear to me to be necessary."

  Nor was it necessary, said Roland to his conscience. Mr. Montague haddone all the insuring that was necessary--and a bit over.

  Miss Verepoint fought with her growing indignation, and lost. "Whatabout the salaries of the people who have been rehearsing all thistime?" she demanded.

  "I'm sorry that they should be out of an engagement, but it is scarcelymy fault. However, I propose to give each of them a month's salary. Ican manage that, I think."

  Miss Verepoint rose. "And what about me? What about me, that's what Iwant to know. Where do I get off? If you think I'm going to marry youwithout your getting a theater and putting up this revue you're jollywell mistaken."

  Roland made a gesture which was intended to convey regret andresignation. He even contrived to sigh.

  "Very well, then," said Miss Verepoint, rightly interpreting thisbehavior as his final pronouncement on the situation. "Then everything'sjolly well off."

  She swept out of the room, the two authors following in her wake likeporpoises behind a liner. Roland went to his bureau, unlocked it andtook out a bundle of documents. He let his fingers stray lovingly amongthe fire insurance policies which energetic Mr. Montague had been atsuch pains to secure from so many companies.

  "And so," he said softly to himself, "am I."