Mr. Marx's Secret Part 13

BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE TORCHESTER THEATRE.

I followed my guide to the end of the corridor, through a door which he unlocked and carefully locked again, and past the side of the deserted stage, on which I paused for a moment to gaze with wonder at the array of ropes and pulleys and runners which the carpenters were busy putting to rights, and at the canvas-covered, unlit auditorium, which looked now--strange transformation--like the mouth of some dark cavern. After picking our way carefully, we reached a door on which was painted "Manager's Room." A voice from inside bade us enter and I was ushered in.

Mr. Marx was seated in an easy-chair, talking somewhat earnestly to a slim, dark young man, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. An older man was writing at a table at the other end of the room, with his back to the door.

Mr. Marx welcomed me with a nod, and introduced me briefly to the young man by his side:

"Mr. Morton--Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Isaacs is the manager of the company who are playing here."

Mr. Isaacs turned an unmistakably Jewish face towards me and extended his hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Morton! Hope you liked the performance," he said, with a smile, which disclosed the whole of a very white set of teeth.

"Very fair, wasn't it? Ha, ha, ha!"

I replied that I had enjoyed it exceedingly, and looked at Mr. Marx, wondering how long he meant to stay. I had taken a sudden but strong dislike to Mr. Isaacs.

"Shall you be very long, Mr. Marx?" I asked.

"I have sent for the carriage," he answered; "it will be here in ten minutes."

It seemed to me that there was something a little strange in Mr. Marx's manner and the way in which he kept glancing towards the door.

Just at that moment someone knocked at the door.

"Come in!" cried Mr. Isaacs.

A lady obeyed his summons and swept into the room with a most unnecessary rustling of silk skirts. Mr. Isaacs welcomed her effusively.

"Miss Fay, your most humble servant!" he exclaimed, bowing low. "Let me introduce two of my friends, Mr. Morton and Mr. Marx."

The lady put out her ungloved hand, covered with a profusion of rings.

"I know this young gentleman by sight," she said, in a loud and rather high-pitched tone. "You threw me those lovely flowers, didn't you? So good of you--awfully good! I've sent them home by my young woman."

I stammered out some incoherent response and heartily wished myself a hundred miles away. What a disenchantment it was! I looked at her thickly pencilled eyebrows, at the smeared powder and paint which lay thick upon her face: at her bold, staring eyes, the crow's-feet underneath, which art had done what it could to conceal and failed; at the ma.s.ses of yellow hair, which intuitively I knew to be false, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame that I should have been tricked into admiring her for a moment. Unfortunately, she put down my embarra.s.sment to another cause, for it seemed partly to gratify, partly to amuse her.

"My young friend and I admired your performance equally, Miss Fay, although, perhaps, he was the more demonstrative," said Mr. Marx, coming forward. "Will you accept the congratulations and thanks of a provincial who seldom has the pleasure of seeing such acting or hearing such a voice?"

She thanked him with an affected little laugh, which suddenly died away and she looked into his face intently.

"Haven't we met before?" she asked curiously. "There is something about your face or voice which seems familiar to me."

He returned her gaze steadily, but shook his head with a slight smile.

"I am afraid I may not claim that honour," he said. "If we had there could not possibly have been any uncertainty in my mind about it. It would have been a treasured memory."

She looked doubtful, but turned away carelessly.

"I suppose it is my mistake, then," she remarked. "You certainly seem to remind me of someone whom I have known. Fancy, perhaps. Mr. Isaacs, I came to beg for your escort home." (Here she shot a quick glance at me, which made my cheeks hot again.) "I have sent Julia on, and I can't go alone, can I, Mr. Morton?" she asked, turning to me.

"I--I suppose not," I answered, devoutly wis.h.i.+ng that Mr. Marx would take his departure. But, as though on purpose, he had gone to the other end of the room and had his back turned towards me.

There was a brief silence. Mr. Isaacs glanced at me, whistled softly to himself, and then strolled slowly over to the window, as though to see what sort of a night it was. Miss Fay glanced at me impatiently, with a slight contraction in her eyebrows. I longed desperately to get away, but for the life of me could think of no excuse.

"You won't offer your escort, then, Mr. Morton?" she whispered.

"I can't. I don't know the town--never was here before--and we have a twelve-mile drive before us. We are expecting the carriage every moment.

Ah, there it is!" I added, with a sudden sense of relief, as I heard the sound of horses' feet stamping and pawing outside and the jingling of harness. "Mr. Marx, Burdett has come!" I called out.

He looked up, frowning.

"All right; there's no hurry!" he said. "If you're not ready, pray don't study me. I should enjoy a cigar and a brandy-and-soda down at the 'Bell'

before we start."

"I'm quite ready, thanks," I answered slowly, for his words and manner had given me something to think about. "If you don't mind, I should like to be getting away. It's a long way, you know."

"Oh, pray don't let me detain you!" Miss Fay exclaimed, tossing her head.

"Mr. Isaacs, if you're ready, I am. Good-night, Mr. Marx; good-night, Mr.

Morton!"

She drew me a little on one side--a manoeuvre which I was powerless to prevent--and whispered in my ear:

"You shy, stupid boy! There!"

She shook hands with me again and left something in my palm. When they were gone and I was in the pa.s.sage, I looked at it. It was a plain card and on it was hastily scribbled an address:

Miss Mabel Fay, 15, Queen Street.

I felt my cheeks flush as I tore it into pieces and flung them on the ground. Then I followed Mr. Marx out to the carriage and, leaning back among the cus.h.i.+ons by his side, I began seriously to consider an idea which every trifling incident during the latter part of the evening had pointed to; Mr. Marx had deliberately tried to lead me into making a fool of myself with Miss Mabel Fay. Why?

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MOOR.

We were more than half-way home before Mr. Marx broke a silence which was becoming oppressive.

"Well, have you enjoyed your evening?" he asked.

"Of course I have, and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me to the theatre," I added. After all, perhaps I was misjudging him. What possible motive could he have for being my enemy?

"Oh, that's all right," he declared, carefully lighting a cigar and throwing the match out of the window. "I'm afraid you've had more than one illusion dispelled this evening, though," he went on, smiling. "You must have had plenty of time and opportunity, too, for weaving them, out here all your life. Have you never been away to visit your relations, or anything of that sort?"

I shook my head.

"I don't believe I have any relations," I said. "I never heard of any. My father used to say that he was the last of his family."