The Double Act

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 136, 11 June 1929, Page 22

The Double Act

By MARION TOMLINSON j

j— I 2 A Romance of the Theatre. a

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

ROSEMARY MARTIN, a young actress playing the part of a Cockney boy in a second-rate theatre, has her wig knocked oil one night during her act, disclosing lier unusually beautiful masses of long golden hair. The effect of this, combined with her boy's costume Is ridiculous, and the audience laugh her off the stage.

LIONEL GRENOBLE, a producer of West End revues, however, is in the audience, and engages her for the sake of that spectacular hair. He establishes her in a charming house in a locked garden, where she assumes the name of Madame Marigold, and is allowed to see no one but her friend and companion.

NELL FORREST. Finding that Rosemary's beauty makes the perfect centre for his famous stage settings, Grenoble displaces his former star,

DOLORES MONCLAIR, and Rosemary becomes her bitterest enemy. Walking in lier locked garden one day Rosemary is seen by ANTONY CARSON, a young playwright, who falls in love with her. lie writes a play about her, not knowing who she is. Later, however, lie is appalled to discover that she is a Grenoble star. He visits Rosemary in her dressing room at the theatre where she is acting, but after seeing her he apologises for his intrusion, and runs from the room.

CHAPTER XIII. A Plan of Action. Antony told himself he was being thoroughly illogical. The close scented air of Rosemary's dressing room had revolted him, but her eyes behind their darkened lashes had, he thought been clear and shy. "All those exotic furnishings are no doubt more Grenoble's doings than hers," he thought. "Even lier personality on the stage may have been wholly manufactured by Grenoble. She might appear a wholly different person in a decent play." Antony's lonely musings were telling on his health. Day and night he reheard the few trivial things she had spoken to him in her warm voice that evening in lieu dressing room. Finally tlio phantom voice began to say other things that the real Rosemary had never said. One evening she spoke clearly from the empty air as he sat at his

desk. "Antony, I love you," she said. The voung man sat still for a moment. Then he reached for the play he had written for the girl in the garden. "There's only one way to rescue you, dearest," he murmured. "You must have a play fit for you to appear in. j You who brought all the airs of spring | blowing about the fountain in your garden last summer —you must not be prisoned any longer." Reading over the play, Antony decided oil his course of action. He would take it directly to the girl for whom it was written. He wrapped up the manuscript, and enclosed a note begging her to allow him to talk to her a few moments in her garden. Then he took his parcel to the padlocked gate. There was no bell to be seen there, no house number. Only the name "Marigold" in copper above the lock. Antony followed the fence of iron palings until he came to the tradesman s ] door. This too, was padlocked, but I there was a small electric bell at hand, j Antony pressed the button. In a few minutes a housemaid came | to the other side of the fence. "May I send in my card to Madame Marigold?" asked Antony. The maid shook her head emphaticI allv.

"Oh no, sir. Madame never sees ariyone." . Antony had expected this, and offered the maid the parcel which he carried. She hesitated. "I'm not allowed—" she said. "It's all right," smiled Antony. I assure you your mistress will not be angry." The maid looked at him and succumbed. She had a weakness for good looking young men, and this one she thought very charming indeed. She and cook had often talked things over. "That sweet young lady is a prisoner, and you can't tell me any different," cook had said. "It's not natural for a young girl to be shut away and have nobody to talk to but an elderly woman and that gentleman, whoever lie is, that comes here. Young company she ought to have." So the housemaid, scenting a romance, accepted Antony's errand eagerly at last. "I'll sec that it gets into her very hands, sir," she said, "though how I'm to get past that Mrs. Forrest, I don't know. Stands in front of the young lady's door like a dragon, she docs." "You needn't worry," Antony, assured her. "There's nothing wrong aoout it. But I would be .glad to know that this reached her personally." ■ There followed days of anxious waiting for the young playwright. At last a note reached him. He read it. Dear Sir, —

I liave read your play "Berenice," and think it very, very beautiful. Did you truly write it for me? I am afraid I can't receive you, though, because I am not allowed to receive anyone. But I will show it to Mr. Grenoble, if you will allow me, and ask him to put it on. And perhaps he will let me play the part. I am contracted to him, you know r . But I am a very unimportant person really, and perhaps he will not let me. I should love—l should simply love to play it, and am awfully grateful to you for thinking I might. It is very, very beautiful.

Sincerely yours, Marigold. Rosemary's letter made both the playwright, and the lover in Antony happy. Surely, he told himself, that letter was written, not by the golden siren of the stage and dressing room, but by the girl of the fountain. This was true. Grenoble had not taught Rosemary to Write letters in the character he had designed for lier. He had not expected her to write letters at all, and so had not expressly forbidden it. A second reading of the letter brought more mingled emotions to Antony. Evidently Marigold took it for granted that if she was to play the part- at all it must be produced by Grenoble. Even to Antony this seemed inevitable, since she was contracted to Grenoble. He would rather have had his play produced by the worst amateur than by this man, whom he distrusted. Yet obviously he must choose between accepting Grenoble and losing Marigold for the role that had been written for her. He determined at least to have one try if Marigold could.be got without lier producer. He write a note and delivered it to the housemaid, Annie, at tit" "-ate. "Oh, sir," cried Annie, as she took the I e'nve.ope, "she's been that happy lately. I She hasn't been eating her food proper.

(Author of "THE BELOVED SINNER," etc.) j

and cook and I Were fair distracted what to do, but now you can hear lier linking about the 'house." "Do you think you could pet this note to her now and come back with an answer, 'yes' or 'no'"? asked Antony. "I'll try sir," answered the housemaid eagerly. "Maybe cook could manage to get Mrs. Forrest downstairs while I run up with it." Antony waited for what seemed hours, until Annie returned with a breathless "Yes," and disappeared as if she were pursued. Antony, strolling contentedly round to the pavement, saw the reason for her haste. A large Rolls Royce stood in front of the door of the little house, though the gate had been again padlocked. Antony looked at the privileged motor with hatred. Whose was it? Grenoble's, perhaps. The discovery took away most of the pleasure he felt at his lady's assent to a meeting that afternoon.

CHAPTER XIV

A New Play,

In the blue panelled drawing room Rosemary faced Grenoble joyously. "Oh, Mr. Grenoble," she cried," "I'm so glad you've come. Some one has sent me the most beautiful play, I do wish you could put it on when "Shower o' Gold' is finished." Grenoble looked at her quickly. "Where did you get it?" he asked. "It was delivered at the door addressed to 'Marigold,'" she said. "The author wrote he had made it specially for me, but of course if you would rather have someone else to play the part it wouldn't matter." "Who is the author?" said Grenoble. "Do you know him?" "No, I've never heard of him before, so far as I know," said Rosemary frankly, "but his name is Antony Carson." The name meant nothing to the producer, who, it will be remembered, had not learned Antony's name on either of the occasions when the two men had faced each other. "You shouldn't be accepting communications from strange men," lie remarked. "Still, I'll look at the play. It's probably a dud, but I'm certainly looking for something to follow 'Shower o' Gold,' and you're sure to be the star of the next one."

"Sit down and let me read it to you," said Rosemary eagerly. "I know a good deal of it by heart already. The prologue is set in legendary times—it's a real legend, I looked it up in my Handbook of Greek mythology. Berenice, the queen, prays without ceasing before the altar of Venus for the safe return of her lord, King Ptolymaeus, from the foreign wars. At last the oracle speaks, 'Give what you hold most dear!' and so at twilight Queen Berenice in solemn procession lays on the altar like a shadowy cloth of gold her hair. It clings there a moment and then is not, and while the queen, and all her followers stand amazed, watchers on the hillside raise a shout, for there, high in the heavens, floats Berenice's hair, in a misty cloud of tiny stars. I think, but I'm not sure," added Rosemary, looking up from the manuscript, "that that is the constellation now called 'The Pleiades.'"

In spite of his original doubts Grenoble was interested. "That sounds like just what I want," lie said. ''I can make that prologue into a great scene, with lights and costumes, and not too much talk. It will give you a big chance to show to advantage too. What. comes next ?" "After the prologue it changes to a modern scene, during the Great War. Another Berenice gives what she holds most dear, and her husband does come back, and when he learns her sacrifice he blames her and . . ." "H'm," interrupted Grenoble. "A modern scene and the world war. That's not much good to me —no chance for costumes and spectacles. Still, the prologue is great, once we've cut some of the poetical talk out of it, and I daresay we can do something with the rest." "I don't suppose he'd like you to make many changes," ventured Rosemary. "Nonsense, child, plays are not written, they're re-written, and the producer does most of the re-writing. If I buy this play for you the author can consider himself a lucky young man—for I suppose he is young, from the sound of his dialogue. He'll make a fuss, .of course, they all do, but when he finds himself made famous overnight he'll realise his luck." Grenoble took up the manuscript and turned over the pages rapidly. "Yes, I think I can do something with this," he said. "The ideas are good. Is his address on it? Oh yes, I'll write him, and we'll begin rehearsals as soon as I've got it into some sort of shape." Rosemary looked at her producer doubtfully. "You'll talk it over with him! I'm not sure he'd agree to . . "Don't worry your lovely head about him, child," said Grenoble. "If I take him up it means a start 011 the way to fame, and I don't think he'll refuse it." He looked at her keenly. "You're looking considerably brighter than when I was last here," he remarked. "You've been a bit pale and listless lately. I'm posting the notices for the show in a couple of weeks, and then I think I'll pack you off to the South of France while I get the next production started. I don't mean you to rehearse with the company any more than is necessary." Grenoble took his leave, and Rosemary glanced at her watch. In two hours the author of "Berenice" would be at the iron palings beyond the fountain, and she would see him. She laughed aloud at the good news she would have to tell him, and the next moment was laughing at herself for being so excited over a meeting with an entirely unknown person. "It's because I never meet anyone, at least with whom I can be natural," she told herself, and made herself sit down sedately to read until the hour of the rendezvous should arrive. She found it hard to keep her mind on the printed page, however, for she kept thinking of the man she was about to see, and, oddly enough, he merged in her thoughts with the grave young man who had come uninvited to her dressing room, and had seemed to have so much more to say to her than his actual words conveyed. Rosemary looked out of her blue-cur-tained window, it was a clear, sunny day at the end of April, and there wanted only a few minutes of the hour of her first meeting \Vith Antony Carson. Outsi le, the garden was a blowing mass of daffodils, and the fountain twinkled with goldfish.

Grenoble, to do liim justice, was a great producer. He saw to it that the setting he had contrived for his new star was kept as near perfection as possible. Hothouses were ransacked for plants in forced bloom, and gardeners laid them in Rosemary's garden in the very early dawn, when no one was about. This was expensive, but Grenoble was well paid for it by the crowds who flocked to his theatre to see the princess who lived in a magic garden of perpetual spring. Some of the flowers were artificial. The yellow roses that rioted about the grey stone tower were made of silk treated to withstand rain, and since those who saw them were kept at a distance by the palings, the deception was not discovered.

(To be continued daily.)