Night at the Vulcan Read Free Page B

Harlequin.” This last enchanted Martyn because the diamonds of Mr. French’s costume had been filled in with actual red and green sequins and he glittered in his frame.
    Above the fireplace hung a largish sketch — it was little more than that — of a man of about thirty-five in mediaeval dress, with a hood that he was in the act of pushing away from his face. The face was arresting. It had great purity of form, being wide across the eyes and heart-shaped. The mouth, in particular, was of a most subtle character, perfectly masculine but drawn with extreme delicacy. It was well done: it had both strength and refinement Yet it was not these qualities that disturbed Martyn. Reflected in the glass that covered the picture she saw her own face lying ghost-wise across the other; their forms intermingled like those in a twice-exposed photograph. It seemed to Martyn that her companion must be looking over her shoulder at this double image and she moved away from him and nearer to the picture. The reflection disappeared. Something was written faintly in one corner of the sketch. She drew closer and saw that it was a single word:
Everyman
.
    “Spittin’ image of ’im, ain’t it?” said the night-watchman behind her.
    “I don’t know,” she said quickly. “Is it?”
    “
Is
it! Don’t you know the Guv’nor when you see ’im?”
    “The Governor?”
    “ ’Strewth you’re a caution and no error. Don’t you know who owns this show? That’s the great Mr. Adam Poole, that is.”
    “Oh,” she murmured after a pause, and added uneasily: “I’ve seen him in the pictures, of course.”
    “Go on!” he jeered. “Where would that be? Australia? Fancy!”
    He had been very kind to her, but she found his remorseless vein of irony exasperating. It would have been easier and less tedious to have let it go but she found herself embarked on an explanation. Of course she knew all about Mr. Adam Poole, she said. She’d seen his photograph in the foyer. All his pictures had been shown in New Zealand. She knew he was the most distinguished of the younger contemporary actor-managers. She was merely startled by the painting because… But it was impossible to explain why the face in the painting disturbed her and the unfinished phrase trailed away into an embarrassed silence.
    Her companion listened to this rigmarole with an equivocal grin and when she gave it up merely remarked: “Don’t apologize. It’s the same with all the ladies. ’E fair rocks ’em. Talk about ’aving what it takes.”
    “I don’t mean that at all,” she shouted angrily.
    “You should see ’em clawing at each other to get at ’im rahnd the stage-door, first nights. Something savage! Females of the speeches? Disgrace to their sexes more like. There’s an ironing board etceterer in the wardrobe-room further along. You can plug in when you’re ready. ’Er royal ’ighness is over the way.”
    He went out, opened a further door, switched on a light and called to her to join him. g>
    As soon as she crossed the threshold of the star dressing-room she smelt greasepaint. The dressing-shelf was bare, the room untenanted, but the smell of cosmetics mingled with the faint reek of gas. There were isolated dabs of colour on the shelves and the looking-glass; the lamp-bulbs were smeared with cream and red where sticks of greasepaint had been warmed at them; and on a shelf above the wash-basin somebody had left a miniature frying-pan of congealed mascara in which a hair-pin was embedded.
    It was a largish room, windowless and dank, with an air of submerged grandeur about it. The full-length cheval-glass swung from a gilt frame. There was an Empire couch, an armchair and an ornate stool before the dressing-shelf. The floor was carpeted in red with a florid pattern that use had in part obliterated. A number of dress-boxes bearing the legend
Costumes by Pierrot et Cie
were stacked in the middle of the room, and there were two suitcases on the shelf. A gas