Regent — Corner-Stone
I
On a morning in spring Edward Henry got out of an express at Euston which had come, not from the Five Towns, but from Birmingham.
Having on the previous day been called to Birmingham on local and profitable business, he had found it convenient to spend the night there and telegraph home that London had summoned him.
It was in this unostentatious, this half-furtive fashion, that his visits to London now usually occurred.
Not that he was afraid of his wife!
Not that he was afraid even of his mother!
Oh, no!
He was merely rather afraid of himself--of his own opinion concerning the metropolitan, non-local, speculative and perhaps unprofitable business to which he was committed.
The fact was that he could scarcely look his women in the face when he mentioned London.
He spoke vaguely of "real estate" enterprise, and left it at that.
The women made no inquiries; they too left it at that.
Nevertheless ...!
The episode of Wilkins's was buried, but it was imperfectly buried.
The Five Towns definitely knew that he had stayed at Wilkins's for a bet, and that Brindley had discharged the bet.
And rumours of his valet, his electric brougham, his theatrical supper-parties, had mysteriously hung in the streets of the Five Towns like a strange vapour.
Wisps of the strange vapour had conceivably entered the precincts of his home, but nobody ever referred to them; nobody ever sniffed apprehensively nor asked anybody else whether there was not a smell of fire.
The discreetness of the silence was disconcerting.
Happily his relations with that angel his wife were excellent.
She had carried angelicism so far as not to insist on the destruction of Carlo; and she had actually applauded, while sticking to her white apron, the sudden and startling extravagances of his toilette.
On the whole, though little short of thirty-five thousand pounds would ultimately be involved--not to speak of a liability of nearly three thousand a year for sixty-four years for ground-rent--Edward Henry was not entirely gloomy as to his prospects.
He was, indubitably thinner in girth; novel problems and anxieties, and the constant annoyance of being in complete technical ignorance of his job, had removed some flesh.
(And not a bad thing, either!
) But on the other hand his chin exhibited one proof that life was worth living, and that he had discovered new faith in life and a new conviction of youthfulness.
He had shaved off his beard.
"Well, sir!"
a voice greeted him full of hope and cheer, immediately his feet touched the platform.
It was the voice of Mr. Marrier.
Edward Henry and Mr. Marrier were now in regular relations.
Before Edward Henry had paid his final bill at Wilkins's and relinquished his valet and his electric brougham, and disposed for ever of his mythical "man" on board the Minnetonka, and got his original luggage away from the Hotel Majestic, Mr. Marrier had visited him and made a certain proposition.
And such was the influence of Mr. Marrier's incurable smile and of his solid optimism and of his obvious talent for getting things done on the spot (as witness the photography), that the proposition had been accepted.
Mr. Marrier was now Edward Henry's "representative" in London.
At the Green Room Club Mr. Marrier informed reliable cronies that he was Edward Henry's "confidential adviser."
At the Turk's Head, Hanbridge, Edward Henry informed reliable cronies that Mr. Marrier was a sort of clerk, factotum, or maid-of-all-work.
A compromise between these two very different conceptions of Mr. Marrier's position had been arrived at in the word "representative."
The real truth was that Edward Henry employed Mr. Marrier in order to listen to Mr. Marrier.
He turned on Mr. Marrier like a tap, and nourished himself from a gushing stream of useful information concerning the theatrical world.
Mr. Marrier, quite unconsciously, was bit by bit remedying Edward Henry's acute ignorance.
The question of wages had caused Edward Henry some apprehensions.
He had learnt in a couple of days that a hundred pounds a week was a trifle on the stage.
He had soon heard of performers who worked for "nominal" salaries of forty and fifty a week.
For a manager twenty pounds a week seemed to be a usual figure.
But in the Five Towns three pounds a week is regarded as very goodish pay for any sub-ordinate, and Edward Henry could not rid himself all at once of native standards.
He had therefore, with diffidence, offered three pounds a week to the aristocratic Marrier.
And Mr. Marrier had not refused it, nor ceased to smile.
On three pounds a week he haunted the best restaurants, taxi-cabs, and other resorts, and his garb seemed always to be smarter than Edward Henry's--especially in such details as waistcoat slips.
Of course Mr. Marrier had a taxi-cab waiting exactly opposite the coach from which Edward Henry descended.
It was just this kind of efficient attention that was gradually endearing him to his employer.
"How goes it?"
said Edward Henry, curtly, as they drove down to the Grand Babylon Hotel--now Edward Henry's regular headquarters in London.
Said Mr. Marrier: "I suppose you've seen another of 'em's got a knighthood?"
"No," said Edward Henry.
"Who?"
He knew that by "'em" Mr. Marrier meant the great race of actor-managers.
"Gerald Pompey.
Something to do with him being a sheriff in the City, you know.
I bet you what you laike he went in for the Common Council simply in order to get even with old Pilgrim.
In fact I know he did.
And now a foundation-stone-laying has dan it."
"A foundation-stone-laying?"
"Yes.
The new City Guild's building, you knaow.
Royalty--Temple Bar business--sheriffs--knighthood.
There you are!"
"Oh!"
said Edward Henry.
And then after a pause added: "Pity _we_ can't have a foundation-stone-laying!"
"By the way, old Pilgrim's in the deuce and all of a haole, I heah.
It's all over the Clubs."
(In speaking of the Clubs Mr. Marrier always pronounced them with a capital letter.
) "I told you he was going to sail from Tilbury on his world-tour, and have a grand embarking ceremony and seeing-off!
Just laike him!
Greatest advertiser the world ever saw!
Well, since that P. & O.
boat was lost on the Goodwins, Cora Pryde has absolutely declined to sail from Tilbury.
Ab-so-lute-ly!
Swears she'll join the steamer at Marseilles.
And Pilgrim has got to go with her, too."
"Why?"
"Well, even Pilgrim couldn't have a grand embarking ceremony without his leading lady!
He's furious, I hear."
"Why shouldn't he go with her?"
"Why not?
Because he's formally announced his grand embarking ceremony!
Invitations are out.
Barge from London Bridge to Tilbury, and so on!
What he wants is a good excuse for giving it up.
He'd never be able to admit that he'd had to give it up because Cora Pryde made him!
He wants to save his face."
"Well," said Edward Henry, absently.
"It's a queer world.
You've got me a room at the Grand Bab?"
"Rather!"
"Then let's go and have a look at the Regent first," said Edward Henry.
No sooner had he expressed the wish than Mr. Harrier's neck curved round through the window, and with three words to the chauffeur he had deflected the course of the taxi.
Edward Henry had an almost boyish curiosity about his edifice.
He would go and give it a glance at the oddest moments.
And just now he had a swift and violent desire to behold it.
With all speed the taxi shot down Shaftesbury Avenue and swerved to the right....
There it was!
Yes, it really existed, the incredible edifice of his caprice and of Mr. Alloyd's constructive imagination!
It had already reached a height of fifteen feet; and, dozen of yards above that, cranes dominated the sunlit air, swinging loads of bricks in the azure; and scores of workmen crawled about beneath these monsters.
And he, Edward Henry, by a single act of volition, was the author of it!
He slipped from the taxi, penetrated within the wall of hoardings, and gazed, just gazed!
A wondrous thing--human enterprise!
And also a terrifying thing!...
That building might be the tomb of his reputation.
On the other hand, it might be the seed of a new renown compared to which the first would be as naught!
He turned his eyes away, in fear--yes, in fear!
"I say," he said.
"Will Sir John Pilgrim be out of bed yet, d'ye think?"
He glanced at his watch.
The hour was about eleven.
"He'll be at breakfast."
"I'm going to see him, then.
What's his address?"
"25 Queen Anne's Gate.
But do you knaow him?
I do.
Shall I cam with you?"
"No," said Edward Henry, shortly.
"You go on with my bags to the Grand Bab, and get me another taxi.
I'll see you in my room at the hotel at a quarter to one.
Eh?"
"Rather!"
agreed Mr. Marrier, submissive.
II
"Sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre."
These were the words which Edward Henry wrote on a visiting-card and which procured him immediate admittance to the unique spectacle--reputed to be one of the most enthralling sights in London--of Sir John Pilgrim at breakfast.
In a very spacious front-room of his flat (so celebrated for its Gobelins tapestries and its truly wonderful parquet-flooring) sat Sir John Pilgrim at a large hexagonal mahogany table.
At one side of the table a small square of white diaper was arranged, and on this square were an apparatus for boiling eggs, another for making toast, and a third for making coffee.
Sir John, with the assistance of a young Chinaman and a fox-terrier, who flitted around him, was indeed eating and drinking.
The vast remainder of the table was gleamingly bare, save for newspapers and letters opened and unopened which Sir John tossed about.
Opposite to him sat a secretary whose fluffy hair, neat white _chemisette_, and tender years gave her an appearance of helpless fragility in front of the powerful and ruthless celebrity.
Sir John's crimson-socked left foot stuck out from the table, emerging from the left half of a lovely new pair of brown trousers, and resting on a piece of white paper.
Before this white paper knelt a man in a frock-coat who was drawing an outline on the paper round Sir John's foot.
"You _are_ a bootmaker, aren't you?"
Sir John was saying airily.
"Yes, Sir John."
"Excuse me!"
said Sir John.
"I only wanted to be sure.
I fancied from the way you caressed my corn with that pencil that you might be an artist on one of the illustrated papers.
My mistake!"
He was bending down.
Then suddenly straightening himself he called across the room: "I say, Givington, did you notice my pose then--my expression as I used the word 'caressed'?
How would that do?"
And Edward Henry now observed in a corner of the room a man, standing in front of an easel and sketching somewhat grossly thereon in charcoal.
This man said: "If you won't bother me, Sir John, I won't bother you."
"Ah!
Givington!
Ah!
Givington!"
murmured Sir John still more airily--at breakfast he was either airy or nothing.
"You're getting on in the world.
You aren't merely an A. R.
A.
;--you're making money!
A
year ago you'd never have had the courage to address me in that tone.
Well, I sincerely congratulate you....
Here, Snip, here's my dentist's bill--worry it, worry it!
Good dog!
Worry it!"
(The dog growled now over a torn document beneath the table.
) "Miss Taft, you might see that a _communique _ goes out to the effect that I gave my first sitting to Mr. Saracen Givington, A. R.
A.
, this morning.
The activities of Mr. Saracen Givington are of interest to the world, and rightly so!
You'd better come round to the other side for the right foot, Mr. Bootmaker.
The journey is simply nothing."
And then, and not till then, did Sir John Pilgrim turn his large and handsome middle-aged blond face in the direction of Alderman Edward Henry Machin.
"Pardon my curiosity," said Sir John, "but who are you?"
"My name is Machin--Alderman Machin," said Edward Henry.
"I sent up my card and you asked me to come in."
"Ha!"
Sir John exclaimed, seizing an egg.
"Will you crack an egg with me, Alderman?
I can crack an egg with anybody."
"Thanks," said Edward Henry.
"I'll be very glad to."
And he advanced towards the table.
Sir John hesitated.
The fact was that, though he dissembled his dismay with marked histrionic skill, he was unquestionably overwhelmed by astonishment.
In the course of years he had airily invited hundreds of callers to crack an egg with him--the joke was one of his favourites--but nobody had ever ventured to accept the invitation.
"Chung," he said weakly, "lay a cover for the Alderman."
Edward Henry sat down quite close to Sir John.
He could discern all the details of Sir John's face and costume.
The tremendous celebrity was wearing a lounge-suit somewhat like his own, but instead of the coat he had a blue dressing-jacket with crimson facings; the sleeves ended in rather long wristbands, which were unfastened, the opal cuff-links drooping each from a single hole.
Perhaps for the first time in his life Edward Henry intimately understood what idiosyncratic elegance was.
He could almost feel the emanating personality of Sir John Pilgrim, and he was intimidated by it; he was intimidated by its hardness, its harshness, its terrific egotism, its utterly brazen quality.
Sir John's glance was the most purely arrogant that Edward Henry had ever encountered.
It knew no reticence.
And Edward Henry thought: "When this chap dies he'll want to die in public, with the reporters round his bed and a private secretary taking down messages."
"This is rather a lark," said Sir John, recovering.
"It is," said Edward Henry, who now felicitously perceived that a lark it indeed was, and ought to be treated as such.
"It shall be a lark!"
he said to himself.
Sir John dictated a letter to Miss Taft, and before the letter was finished the grinning Chung had laid a place for Edward Henry, and Snip had inspected him and passed him for one of the right sort.
"Had I said that this is rather a lark?"
Sir John inquired, the letter accomplished.
"I forget," said Edward Henry.
"Because I don't like to say the same thing twice over if I can help it.
It _is_ a lark though, isn't it?"
"Undoubtedly," said Edward Henry, decapitating an egg.
"I only hope that I'm not interrupting you."
"Not in the least," said Sir John.
"Breakfast is my sole free time.
In another half hour I assure you I shall be attending to three or four things at once."
He leant over towards Edward Henry.
"But between you and me, Alderman, quite privately, if it isn't a rude question, what did you come for?"
"Well," said Edward Henry, "as I wrote on my card, I'm the sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre--" "But there is no Regent Theatre," Sir John interrupted him.
"No. Not strictly.
But there will be.
It's in course of construction.
We're up to the first floor."
"Dear me!
A suburban theatre, no doubt?"
"Do you mean to say, Sir John," cried Edward Henry, "that you haven't noticed it?
It's within a few yards of Piccadilly Circus."
"Really!"
said Sir John.
"You see my theatre is in Lower Regent Street and I never go to Piccadilly Circus.
I make a point of not going to Piccadilly Circus.
Miss Taft, how long is it since I went to Piccadilly Circus?
Forgive me, young woman, I was forgetting--you aren't old enough to remember.
Well, never mind details....
And what is there remarkable about the Regent Theatre, Alderman?"
"I intend it to be a theatre of the highest class, Sir John," said Edward Henry.
"Nothing but the very best will be seen on its boards."
"That's not remarkable, Alderman.
We're all like that.
Haven't you noticed it?"
"Then secondly," said Edward Henry, "I am the sole proprietor.
I
have no financial backers, no mortgages, no partners.
I have made no contracts with anybody."
"That," said Sir John, "is not unremarkable.
In fact many persons who do not happen to possess my own robust capacity for belief might not credit your statement."
"And thirdly," said Edward Henry, "every member of the audience--even in the boxes, the most expensive seats--will have a full view of the whole of the stage--or, in the alternative, at _matinées_, a full view of a lady's hat."
"Alderman," said Sir John, gravely, "before I offer you another egg, let me warn you against carrying remarkableness too far.
You may be regarded as eccentric if you go on like that.
Some people, I am told, don't want a view of the stage."
"Then they had better not come to my theatre," said Edward Henry.
"All which," commented Sir John, "gives me no clue whatever to the reason why you are sitting here by my side and calmly eating my eggs and toast, and drinking my coffee."
Admittedly, Edward Henry was nervous.
Admittedly, he was a provincial in the presence of one of the most illustrious personages in the Empire.
Nevertheless, he controlled his nervousness, and reflected: "Nobody else from the Five Towns would or could have done what I am doing.
Moreover, this chap is a mountebank.
In the Five Towns they would kow-tow to him, but they would laugh at him.
They would mighty soon add _him_ up.
Why should I be nervous?
I'm as good as he is."
He finished with the thought which has inspired many a timid man with new courage in a desperate crisis: "The fellow can't eat me."
Then he said aloud: "I want to ask you a question, Sir John."
"One?"
"One.
Are you the head of the theatrical profession, or is Sir Gerald Pompey?"
"_Sir_ Gerald Pompey?"
"_Sir_ Gerald Pompey.
Haven't you seen the papers this morning?"
Sir John Pilgrim turned pale.
Springing up, he seized the topmost of an undisturbed pile of daily papers, and feverishly opened it.
"Bah!"
he muttered.
He was continually thus imitating his own behaviour on the stage.
The origin of his renowned breakfasts lay in the fact that he had once played the part of a millionaire-ambassador who juggled at breakfast with his own affairs and the affairs of the world.
The stage-breakfast of a millionaire-ambassador created by a playwright on the verge of bankruptcy had appealed to his imagination and influenced all the mornings of his life.
"They've done it just to irritate me as I'm starting off on my world's tour," he muttered, coursing round the table.
Then he stopped and gazed at Edward Henry.
"This is a political knighthood," said he.
"It has nothing to do with the stage.
It is not like my knighthood, is it?"
"Certainly not," Edward Henry agreed.
"But you know how people will talk, Sir John.
People will be going about this very morning and saying that Sir Gerald is at last the head of the theatrical profession.
I came here for your authoritative opinion.
I know you're unbiased."
Sir John resumed his chair.
"As for Pompey's qualifications as a head," he murmured, "I know nothing of them.
I fancy his heart is excellent.
I only saw him twice, once in his own theatre, and once in Bond Street.
I should be inclined to say that on the stage he looks more like a gentleman than any gentleman ought to look, and that in the street he might be mistaken for an actor....
How will that suit you?"
"It's a clue," said Edward Henry.
"Alderman!"
exclaimed Sir John, "I believe that if I didn't keep a firm hand on myself I should soon begin to like you.
Have another cup of coffee.
Chung!...
Good-bye, Bootmaker, good-bye!"
"I only want to know for certain who is the head," said Edward Henry, "because I mean to invite the head of the theatrical profession to lay the corner-stone of my new theatre."
"Ah!"
"When do you start on your world's tour, Sir John?"
"I leave Tilbury, with my entire company, scenery and effects, on the morning of Tuesday week, by the _Kandahar_.
I shall play first at Cairo."
"How awkward!"
said Edward Henry.
"I meant to ask you to lay the stone on the very next afternoon--Wednesday, that is!"
"Indeed!"
"Yes, Sir John.
The ceremony will be a very original affair--very original!"
