The Diamond Waterfall (6 page)

Me, she scarcely noticed. “The little one,” she called me. When she was not drawing Frank's attention to Vicky's faults, she was correcting him for his, her high-pitched voice shrill with reprimand. “Just
remember,”
she would say very loudly, wagging her finger at him, “we don't want your trouble again.” And she would turn for confirmation to Reginald Forrest, who played the comic characters or heavy villains and whose deep voice could often be heard singing, falsetto, some of the women's songs. Constance Donovan thought him extremely amusing.

Once, Frank must have been very good-looking, with his head of curly hair, gray now, and his tall athletic build, grown heavy but still impressive. His voice, ah yes, his voice. A light but strong, caressing tenor and, even if past its prime, still an instrument of beauty. Certainly, it seemed to me, he deserved better than our little company.

We toured Scotland in a bitterly cold spring. We played Linlithgow,
Vicky and I staying with her family. It was about this time she began seeing more and more of Laurence Wheldon.

At first it was just to help hear his part. “Darling, he looks so utterly beautiful just reciting—and getting wrong—those quite ridiculous lines. He really cannot act at all. But”—and here she sighed—“Lily darling, I could look and
look
at him the whole day.”

“Well, if that's all you do,” I said easily.

“Ah, if he touched me,” she said.
“Then,
then I think—I think that I might burst into flames.” She waved her arms histrionically to mimic raging fire.

A week later I fell ill and had to stay behind in Newcastle, in the hospital. Vicky wrote me regularly, giving colorful accounts of everyone, but saying little of herself. In her last letter she had announced, “SCANDAL!!! Can you believe—
Mrs. Donovan has run off with Reginald!
It is truly the greatest excitement. And by the way, Laurence advises you to hurry back, as you may have
the chance of a part.”

I hurried south, joining them in Gloucester, where they were playing a particularly foolish burlesque. The next show was to be Frank Cellier's
Dorothy.
Because I had been understudying Mrs. Donovan I was now to play Lydia, the second lead. Vicky was happy, so happy for me. “It is your
chance.
You will never look back.” She spoke from her place in the chorus without envy. And at that time, loving Laurence, did she not love
everyone?
“Oh, I love, I love,” she told me over and over, “though I put nothing in my letters, darling Lily, I
love.”

“But Vicky—he is
married.”
(I was ever the shocked little Yorkshire Puritan.)

Her eyes opened in wonder. “He loves me though!” She frowned. “Passion, Lily. It is a
great
love!”

“And his wife?”

“Oh—but she doesn't care for him
at all.
She cannot even bother these days to tour with him. He has told me that.”

She was completely taken up—and I was excited by my new importance, playing opposite Frank Donovan. Occasionally I would notice he was not the jovial character I remembered from before my illness. The elopement must have hit him hard.

The play was set in 1740. Dorothy and Lydia, the heroines, are at a country fair in disguise, calling themselves Dorcas and Abigail. They meet there Geoff (Laurence) and Harry (Frank). Geoff is on his way to marry the rich Dorothy, to pay off his debts. From then on, a tangle of marriage avoiding stratagems and faked robberies—all ending happily.

Three days before the show opened, we were rehearsing, when suddenly Frank turned and walked offstage. Laurence said at once, “The bottle, the
bottle. My God.” Then to Polly, who was playing Dorothy, “Dearie, run after him. Do.” She looked prettily blank. I said, “I will. Let me.”

I found him near a pile of stacked props. He was holding a bottle, but I saw that it was almost full. I pulled at his arm. “Are you sick? Shall I say you're sick, Frank?”

“Yes—sick,” he said. “Sick. My
soul
Sick.”

I heard the piano strike up: Polly was to go over again a difficult duet with Laurence.

“You don't need any of that,” I said. (Yorkshire temperance. Greenwood again.) “It won't help your soul, you know.
Or
your body.” When he didn't respond, taking his arm, I said, “Come back. Onstage. They need you. They love you. And the audience next week. You will see.” (And dear God, I thought, if this show doesn't go on, I shall lose my chance.)
“Please,
Frank, Mr. Donovan—”

“Yes,” he said, looking vague. “Yes. I could.”

Back again, he behaved as if nothing had happened. Singing to me, faultlessly, the best-loved song of the show, “Queen of My Heart.”

That evening, he asked me to walk in the town with him. “To keep me from temptation,” he said. We walked solemnly around Gloucester in and out of the cathedral precincts while he told me about his childhood. He did not mention Constance at all. The next evening and the next, the same.

The performance itself—how he played! Even Laurence was agreeably surprised.
I
knew though that it was my doing—that Frank sang not for Lydia, but for Lily Greene. I knew myself to be, for those few hours, Queen of his heart. I felt pity then, immense pity. I could see, as he sang, the years drop away—so that I
knew
him: the young and hopeful singer, all the best to come, a bottle no more than something to be cracked among friends. “Queen of My Heart,” he sang. I scarcely noticed Laurence and Vicky (passing of messages, quick touching of hands in the wings).

After that, I thought my support of him could perhaps be less, that I had done the
work.
But it was only beginning. And I, I was not without feeling. A bond had been forged. Pity (mine), need (his)?

“Help me,” he said, the second evening. “Walk. A short walk. A drink. No,
no
drink.”

“No drink,” I echoed. We walked a little way out of the town. “It is not serious, my drinking,” he said. “I can live without it. Surely I can.
If you help me.”

The next time out with me he broke down and cried for Constance. “She has such little
feet,”
he wept. “Such
pretty
feet.” He was rather ridiculous. I wanted to take him in my arms, but did not. Instead (and I was to regret this) I said pertly, “
I
have pretty feet too.”

“Be wise in time, O Phyllis mine,” Polly and I sang each evening. And each evening after the performance, Frank and I walked, and talked. He did
not cry again. On the Friday morning we heard that by popular demand we were to stay on another week.

The weather, which had been cold and damp, changed suddenly. Mild, sunny, St. Martin's summer. Eyes sparkling, Vicky told me, “Laurence and I are to spend the
whole
day together.” Then: “And you, dearest, what shall you do?”

But we had arranged already: luncheon in an inn, followed by a walk in the country, and then back to Frank's lodgings for tea. The perfect weather held all day. Then, as the light began to go, teatime. Closed curtains, the kettle singing, warm room. Muffins on the hob. Their pleasant yeasty smell. The scent of the tea as I poured it.

I should have thought—it is unbelievable that I did not. Frank, as we approached the house, had said, “Now you'll not mind I'm sure—but my landlady, I told her it's my wife come down for the day.”

The key firmly turned in the lock, we sat over our cakes, our muffins. We spoke this time of my ambitions. Leading roles, visiting Paris, being seen in London. And, too, showing Leeds and Dad, especially Dad, that I had
made good.

I did not make good that afternoon. Frank listened to me sympathetically, nodding encouragement. Then he took hold of my hand. “You'll do it— aren't I sure of that? Even though I'm just an old has-been who's lost his only love. And surely will soon lose his voice.”

“No, no,” I assured him. “No, of course you aren't, of course you won't.”

“You really think that now?” Unsure. A little pathetic. Both his hands now enclosing my one. “Of course, I had my chances—the Almighty knows I had my chances.”

And he began to tell me yet again of his few triumphs. Of how he had courted and wed Constance. He brought himself—and me, for I was brimming over with pity for him, always damnable pity—to the edge of tears. All the time, he stroked my hand, played with my fingers. “Take care of me, won't you, won't you now? See that wicked wicked bottle doesn't get me.”

Then he sang to me. He should never have sung to me. For I knew, just as he did, that he was doomed now to smaller and smaller parts in smaller and smaller companies. That without Constance (even
with
Constance), eventually the bottle would win and he would lose—everything. But for now, he had still a beautiful voice. And touch. For I liked—I was amazed, never yet having had time for or interest in such delights—I liked to be touched by him. The farther his hands explored, the more I liked it. And that I should be giving such pleasure too. My boots off now, my stockings rolled down and off. My bare feet (but this was ridiculous) caressed, kissed, praised and praised. And then his hands wandering upward.

A sharp knock on the door. Another. Frank's angry reply:
“Please!
My
wife and I are rehearsing. Did you not hear me
sing
just now?” The footsteps going away. Then Frank bursting at once into song, laughing and winking at me. A moment later and his hands were exploring farther, farther. “My princess, my little princess. Take care of me. My little princess.” My head was pulled onto his chest.

Taking fright, I mumbled, “I'm not your princess.”

“No, no, of course not. You are
queen.
Queen of my heart, aren't you?” Stupid words from a stupid song, and my undoing.

He too was undone. Unbuttoned. I was amazed at what I saw. Terrified. The more so when he thrust this fearful object at me, shamefacedly, hurriedly. Pushing me back where I sat, opening my legs, thrusting it between them—

“No!”

“Queen of my heart—just wait now till I—only a moment—still, lie still.”

“But you're
hurting
me!”

“Quick, quick now. No, don't—” For I had begun to struggle. “No, little love!”

It was just that moment the bells began, a great carillon pealing. The room seemed to shake with them. Their crashing echoed my trembling, my fear, my disgust.

“Have pity,” he was pleading, “have pity, and let me.”

“You
have pity, Frank Donovan! You're hurting—”

“Queen of my heart, a little moment—there, there,” he was panting, “and I shall be done, shall be.”

I pushed him away from me, out of me, so that he fell awkwardly, knocking over an unfinished cup of tea. A dark stain spread over the gray patterned carpet. Outside, the bells called good people to pray. In Leeds—but what had I to do with Leeds now?

He looked ridiculous, I looked ridiculous. We were both ridiculous. And to add to it, he was crying.

“For
pity's
sake—no more tears!” Then I realized what I'd said. But did it matter? Uncomfortable, sore, frightened, I had
spent
all my pity.

It was an embarrassing week. I could not avoid him, since we had to play together. When he sang to me—and he did not sound now as if he meant it very much—I tried to think of something else.

Then halfway through the following week, when we had moved on to Lichfield, Constance came back.

Vicky rushed to tell me. She knew only a little of what had happened between Frank and me. Her own love affair would be soiled, I felt, by my tale —so disgusting, so absurd.

“Does it worry you, dearest?” She sounded a little low-spirited, fighting a heavy cold.

Constance was very pleased with herself. It was a triumphal return, although what the triumph was, was not vouchsafed. About her escapade: “We were not suited,” was all she said. She wagged her finger at Frank, even for the first week behaving flirtatiously with him—while he tried to hide an obvious mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.

I did not care. Why should I? Only a week later I was noticed by a scout and engaged for a pantomime in Manchester, to play the Princess in
Jack and the Beanstalk.
I was certain that from now on I would never look back. What was more I had secured a place for Vicky in the chorus. It would be good, I thought, to get her away from Laurence for a while.

Coming off the stage one afternoon, Vicky swayed and fell. Laurence, standing behind me, said irritably, “What's happened now?”

“It's your little favorite—fainted,” Constance said. (Although away, she had not missed any gossip.)

“It's nothing,” Vicky told me, as I rushed to her side. “I haven't been sleeping, you see. That is all.”

But two evenings later, as I stood in the wings about to go on, she came offstage and, separating from the others, clutching my arm, she whispered, “Lily, Lily, dearest—the worst, it is all the
worst.”
Her eyes, against the wet white, the rouge, were large, frightened. “I shall
die,
it's so terrible.”

“Tell me quickly,” I said. “It cannot be so very very bad.”

But it was.

“I am certain,” she said that night, as we were preparing for bed. “Quite quite certain.”

I said, “But what shall you
do?”
(It could have been me, I thought. So nearly—it could have been me too.) “What does
he
say?”

“Ah him. Him. He said only, when I told him, he said only, “That's really too bad, dearie. You
are
in trouble, aren't you?” It took my breath away, Lily. I had thought—even though nothing had been said, and of course he has his moods when he is difficult and cruel.”