  Angel Street opened to a house of twelve persons! Fortunately, Alison was so engrossed in her work that she was not aware of the ridiculously small audience until curtain calls, when they showed their intense appreciation of the play by standing while they applauded and shouted, “Bravo!” It was indicative of the fine performances the actors had given and a deliberate gesture of support. Almost everyone in the audience came backstage after the show, congratulating the company and telling Alison and Howard Miller in particular how wonderful they had been. Aunt Hetty was singularly impressed. “I knew you were a good actress, Alison,” she complimented her, “but I really had no idea you could do a demanding, difficult part like this so well!” Overhearing, Peggy couldn’t help wishing again that she could have a chance to sink her teeth into a dramatic part, too. Not that she was at all envious of Alison—or was she, Peggy wondered? No, she didn’t think so. It was just that seeing someone else in a serious role opened up a part of Peggy that hadn’t been tapped this summer and wished to be used. There was something else to it, too, Peggy thought, smiling secretly. Something that almost nobody outside of the theater knew. And it wasn’t such a bad idea to keep audiences in ignorance about it—otherwise their enjoyment might be lessened. The secret was that in many ways it was really easier to play a dramatic part than a comedy role. Comedy was the hardest thing of all. Peggy suddenly saw Mr. Bladen, who was popping about on stage like a sprightly old bird, nodding with satisfaction at the set. The friendly woman Peggy had met on the street that morning had come with her husband, and they were speaking with Richard Wallace. She noticed Peggy and smiled, beckoning her to come and join their group. “I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Cook, Peggy,” Richard said. “They’re interested in our theater and in some of the furniture we’re using this week.” “Oh,” Peggy exclaimed. “Well, I met part of the family this morning.” She smiled at Mrs. Cook. “And if you’re interested in the pieces on stage, you might speak to Mr. Bladen. He’s here somewhere—” “I noticed in the program that he loaned the couch,” Mr. Cook said. “We think it’s such a beautiful piece that we’d be very interested in buying it.” “Well, wait a minute, and I’ll find him for you.” Peggy beamed and hurried away. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the theater could be of assistance to Mr. Bladen, too! She found him behind a flat, looking curiously at a prop table and, pinned above it, the list of scenes in which the things were used. “Neat. Very neat,” Mr. Bladen said. “Haven’t been backstage since I was a boy. It smells wonderful!” Peggy laughed. She knew exactly what he meant. There was a very special aroma about backstage. It had a hint of glue, paint, make-up, and even the peculiar, musty odor of ropes and pulleys. “I think you’ve sold your chaise longue,” Peggy told him happily. “That is, if you’re interested in selling it!” She brought him back to meet the Cooks, and soon all were engrossed in a discussion of antiques. Peggy saw that it might indeed be a fruitful night for Mr. Bladen. When the boys returned the props and furniture after Angel Street was over, maybe they would be willing to clean up Mr. Bladen’s shop a bit. It was little enough to do in return for the things he had lent them. Peggy made a mental note to remind Michael and his friends. The audiences for the rest of the week were uniformly small. Either people were going to the movie instead of the play, as Max Slade had hoped, or his comments about the company were having their effect. The absence of anything in the paper except their own advertisements was keeping people away, too. If only Ford Birmingham would break down and come to the theater, Peggy thought! The company began rehearsals for the next play, Charley’s Aunt, not knowing if they would even have an opportunity to play it! Rehearsals had never gone so badly. All the fire had left Chuck’s direction, and the cast responded just as dully. Toward the middle of the week, Richard and Chuck called everyone together and announced that the theater would definitely have to close unless everyone took a cut in salary. If the actors were willing to do this and work just for expenses, they might be able to pull through another week. Rita and Gus looked at each other gloomily. Peggy knew that they had counted on saving something this summer to take a long-dreamed-of vacation. In the four years they’d been married, they had never had a honeymoon! Still, Rita and Gus were the first to say they’d be glad to forego their salaries. Rita even laughed about it. “It’s fate, that’s all. We might have known it! And if we did leave now, we’d only have to go back unemployed to New York. It’s too late to get other jobs this summer. Might as well stay here another week and enjoy the scenery!” Everyone else felt the same way. There was little point in not making one last effort, even though they knew the theater couldn’t last long. “Maybe I can talk the manager of Kenabeek Inn into letting us stay for a few days after we close,” Chuck added glumly. “Then you could all at least have a little leisure and swimming after your work!” “Do you remember when we had all that space in the paper after the commissioner of education made his decision about the theater?” Chris Hill asked. “It probably accounted for the good house we had opening night of Dear Ruth. Couldn’t we somehow find something else that would bring us space in the paper—maybe to be mentioned in some of the social columns—anything, as long as they write about us!” “I’ve tried,” Richard said. “I’ve been to see everyone on that paper who could do us the slightest bit of good, and Aunt Hetty has used her influence, too. We do get things in. But the social columns aren’t the answer, Chris, as long as people regard us as amateurs. They don’t want to spend money on anything that isn’t professional! That’s why we only get the same small audience over and over again. Even people who bought season tickets before we opened aren’t using them! They’re beginning to regard their investment as some kind of charity to help the town! No, Chris, I’m afraid we’re licked.” And for the first time, Peggy thought so, too. Until now she always had felt a stirring of hope, an optimistic sense that the theater would pull through somehow. But now everything looked too bleak. It would be unrealistic to hope for a miracle at this point. Peggy began to visualize the letters she would shortly have to write home: “Sorry, we folded! How would you like a visitor for a while?” If, she thought dismally, she could even manage a ticket home now with the cut in salary. It would be too defeating to ask her parents for that. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to go home after all! On the last night of Angel Street a pall hung over the entire theater. It was so thick the company could almost taste it. All the magic had deserted the dressing rooms and the stage, and Peggy realized anew how much the theater was a two-way romance. Plays needed an audience. One couldn’t work to a vacuum. Still, there was a job to be done, and although the actors had long since lost their excitement, they began the play with a determination to do the best possible job, and with that inexplicable feeling of loss that always occurred on the last night of a show. It was sad, saying good-by to a part and a story. Angel Street wouldn’t live again until some other company somewhere took it and molded it into being. The curtain fell to loud but scattered applause, and the actors, too enervated to rush to their dressing rooms tonight, stood about on stage longer than usual. Peggy was talking to Rita about Charley’s Aunt, when a movement in the wings caught her eye, and she turned to see a sight so astonishing that she literally dropped onto Mr. Bladen’s couch. Bill Slade, accompanied by two other men, was walking onto the stage and heading straight for Chuck Crosby with a purposeful air and a broad smile. Peggy gasped, unwilling to trust her eyes! The men were all talking to Chuck now, and he seemed as flabbergasted as Peggy. Rita pulled on her sleeve, “Who are they, Peggy? What’s it all about?” “That’s Bill Slade, one of them,” Peggy said. “I don’t know who the others are.” “Bill Slade!” Rita exclaimed in disbelief. “Well, for heaven’s sake!” Suddenly the little group laughed, and Bill turned to smile at Peggy. “I took your advice, you see,” he said, coming over to her. “I know I’m a little late getting here, but I wanted to bring someone with me. Peggy, this is Ford Birmingham!” Ford Birmingham! Everyone heard the name and stared openly. Mr. Birmingham was an interesting, distinguished-looking man, younger than Peggy had imagined, with streaks of premature gray in his hair. As he spoke to her, Peggy felt a quality of integrity in everything he said. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t come on my own initiative sooner. I feel that I owe you all an apology—particularly in view of the superb play I saw tonight! I’m afraid I misjudged you. I had no idea it would be like this.” He was kind enough to see each member of the company personally and offer his apologies. Peggy was struck by the graciousness of the gesture. It couldn’t be easy for him. “So that is Ford Birmingham!” she exclaimed to Bill. “He’s so—so entirely different from my picture of him!” “Thought you’d like him.” Bill smiled. “And I think there’s another surprise for the cast, Peggy!” He indicated the other member of the trio, who was still deep in conversation with Chuck. “Who is he?” Peggy asked curiously. But before Bill could answer, Chuck, grinning from ear to ear, asked the cast to gather around. “Someone here has a proposition for us,” Chuck said, introducing Mr. Eugene Vincent, the entertainment director for Lake Manor, a huge resort hotel three miles down the highway. “If you people would be interested,” Mr. Vincent said, his plump face wreathed with good humor, “I’d like to have you play one night a week down at the Manor! It would be a wonderful addition to our program, and you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. We’d do our own sets for your plays, take care of moving your props, and transport you back and forth. All you have to do is act!” He beamed at them. “How does that sound to you?” “It might mean that we’d be able to continue our season,” Chuck broke in anxiously. “I’m not sure yet, but the additional money might carry us through—” “And there’s one other inducement,” Mr. Vincent added. “You’d come early for dinner on performance days, and have the recreation facilities available for your use at any time. Swimming, Ping-pong, volleyball....” He raised his eyebrows and peered at them like a genie offering infinite temptations. They couldn’t believe their ears. After a stunned silence, Chris Hill was the first to give a mighty whoop. “Mr. Vincent,” he exclaimed, pumping his hand furiously, “I have always believed in Santa Claus, and now that you have come along, I know it’s true!” He turned to the company. “What about the rest of you? Don’t you believe in miracles?” “You mean it’s true,” Danny said, with a perfectly blank expression. Then as it sank in he grinned, and grabbing Peggy, began to waltz about on stage. “It’s true,” he sang, “it’s terrific, it’s fantastic, it’s the most amazing ever!” The cast merrily congratulated one another, showering Mr. Vincent with handshakes and praise, and finally dragging him and even Ford Birmingham into an impromptu conga line about the stage. Gus turned on the music and it wasn’t long before a real party developed. Michael Miller went out to bring back sandwiches and soft drinks, and the set of Angel Street changed, miraculously, from a gloomy room to one of brightness and gaiety. “How did it all happen?” Peggy asked Bill Slade breathlessly during a lull in the dancing. “Simple,” he answered, smiling. “It occurred to me after our talk that there was one effort I could make in your behalf. I had never spoken seriously to Ford about the theater. I took it for granted that he knew how I felt, but then I remembered that I’d never actually told him so. He’d only heard Max’s side of the story. So”—he grinned at her—“after I saw you that day, I went to see Ford. It took all week to persuade him to come up here, but I finally managed.” “But what did you say to him?” Peggy questioned, her eyes alight with interest. “It must have been good!” “I appealed to his sense of honor,” Bill said. “Since we’re all in the same business, I felt he should make an effort to understand your side of the question, too. And after enough insistence that you were really professional, and that he ought to check that for himself, well—he agreed. You know,” Bill added rather sheepishly, “I was terribly impressed. I really didn’t think the play would be as good as it was. Will you forgive me?” Peggy laughed delightedly, “Oh, Bill! Of course!” “I think Ford will give you a terrific review,” Bill said. “And what about Mr. Vincent?” Peggy asked, “Was that your doing, too?” “No.” Bill shook his head shyly. “Just a coincidence, Peggy. Ford was having dinner with him—” “And you persuaded both of them to come!” Peggy cried. “Now don’t deny it, Bill Slade, I know you did!” “Well,” he admitted reluctantly, “I just said that it might be interesting.” “Oh, Bill, how will we ever be able to thank you!” Peggy’s face was flushed with gratitude. “And I’ll bet Chuck and Richard don’t know a thing about this—” She got up with every intention of telling them, but Bill put out his hand to stop her. “No, please don’t, Peggy,” he pleaded. “They think we came out of simple curiosity and were pleasantly surprised. If the real story should get back to Max, it might hurt him dreadfully. I’d rather keep the whole thing as quiet as possible.” “Of course,” Peggy agreed, sitting down again. “I hadn’t thought of that. Bill, what are you going to do about your brother? I’m sure he thought the theater would close, and he’ll be furious at this new development.” “Well,” Bill said slowly, “he’s bound to know I had something to do with it, but he doesn’t have to know how much—until I prove to him that your theater isn’t the problem! I’ve already talked with Ford and together we’re going to try to improve our choice of films. Ford’s on my side about that.” He smiled ruefully. “If I’d only spoken to him before, Peggy! I guess it took a nudge from you to open my eyes!” “Say! When’s this set coming down?” Gus Stevens asked everyone. “Do you people know what time it is?” And it was late—so late that no one could think of leaving Gus and the boys to work all alone. Everyone, including Ford Birmingham and Mr. Vincent, pitched in to help. The wonderful night ended as the last flat was stacked away and Mr. Vincent, dusting himself off, waved good-by with the cheery promise, “Be seeing you next week at the Manor!” Bill said good-by to Peggy, holding her hand for a moment as he reminded her, “Don’t forget, Peggy, if you’re grateful to me, that I have a lot to thank you for, too. A lot!” “Well,” Chris observed as he watched Bill drive away with his friends, “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye! You two seem to know each other very well!” He looked at Peggy curiously as they started the walk back to the annex together under a bright night sky so clear that it looked like a canopy of diamonds. “Oh, well, you heard the story of my meeting Bill Slade when I went to Mr. Bladen’s that day,” Peggy reminded him, hoping that it would satisfy Chris. She didn’t want anyone to know of their further talk. “And you two became such fast friends in all of about five minutes?” Chris raised his eyebrows. “Oh, now, Peggy! I watched you together tonight and I still say—there’s more to this than meets the eye!” “Well”—Peggy was glad of the night that effectively covered her blush—“he’s really nice, Chris.” She wasn’t very good at evasion and wished that she could tell the whole story, but for Bill’s sake she mustn’t. “I see,” Chris said softly. “Yes, he is a pleasant fellow, Peggy, but you know there are other people around, too. I hope you won’t forget that when you’re thinking of Mr. Slade.” “What does he mean?” Peggy wondered in silence all the way home. Could Chris possibly be putting a different interpretation on her friendship with Bill Slade? “Oh dear,” Peggy thought, “I may have helped untangle the theater, but I’ve certainly tangled up my personal affairs!” She sighed, remembering a little nervously that tomorrow For Love or Money would go into rehearsal and she would be playing a romantic lead opposite Chris Hill! |
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