A Pasteboard Crown Part 21

"Not a bit of it!" laughed Sybil; "they do him good! He has bolted nearly half a string of beads for me since I've been here! Oh, is he not awful?"

Mrs. Van Camp was finally forced to put him in his cage for punishment, and to quiet him a blanket was being wrapped about the top, when suddenly, with surprising distinctness, he croaked "Dead! dead!" then "'Omeo! 'Omeo!" again. And Mrs. Van Camp, with emotion, pressed Thrall's hands and kissed Sybil, and blessed them for their long rehearsals, that were ending in instructing her dear, dear Polly! And the pair writhed in a very anguish of suppressed mirth, until Mrs. Van Camp went back to her embroidery, and their laughter in the drawing-room could be laid to the account of "acting."

Next day Sybil had been presented to the company, on the stage of the Globe. She was being announced as an amateur, and people were filled with wonder that a young girl could pa.s.s from the drawing-room directly to the stage. But her first scene was not over before some knowing smiles and glances were being exchanged, and one of the actresses was saying: "Amateur--drawing-room? Well, she is from the drawing-room, no doubt of that; but she has halted at some other theatre before reaching this one, for she is no amateur!"

"Oh, I don't know!" argued the "old woman," who was, of course, cast for the Nurse. "I find her quite novicey in the 'business' of our scenes."

"That may be," replied the other speaker, a blonde person, referred to by Roberts as "that devil divorcee!" the first term alluding to her malicious temper, the second to the scandalous divorce that preceded her appearance in New York. "It may be that she is not familiar with the 'business' of Juliet, but did you see her awhile ago looking for her boa? The carpenter told her it was hanging across a chair on the 'o. p.'

side, and she crossed over instantly to get it? To an amateur the 'o.

p.' side would have been Greek. And when something was said about 'the borders,' did you see how quickly she looked up at them? Amateur? Call up the marines to listen to that yarn, but I was not born yesterday!"

"No, dear!" pleasantly acquiesced the other. "No one who has seen you would make such a charge, I'm sure!"

"Oh, don't be too clever, for your own good! You shouldn't waste such brilliant bon-mots on a mere actress!"

"Merest mere!" interrupted a voice from behind her. "Don't glare so, you'll spoil your beautiful expression. Good Lord!"

For the angry face had suddenly wreathed itself in smiles, and the divorcee advanced with outstretched hand to meet Sybil, who, the scene being over, was hesitating which way to turn.

"Come and sit here by me," she cooed. "Does your throat get dry from long speaking? Mine does." And she offered a beautiful little bonbonniere, saying, "Try these French paste troches, they are delicious."

And the actor, Joseph Grant, who detested her, said, aside to old Mrs.

Elmer: "Do you see that? Manice is not getting ready to pump, is she?

She'll know that pretty girl's history clear from the very day of her birth before the next act is set."

"Not if Stewart Thrall is as clever as I think he is. There!" chuckled the old woman. "What did I tell you? Oh, do look at Manice's face!"

For Mr. Thrall had suddenly called out, seeing who was talking to her: "Miss Lawton! Here I am in the parquet. Your aunt would like to speak to you during this wait!"

And no one guessed that the white-haired, upright old person attending Sybil, as watchful chaperon, was really only Mrs. Van Camp's ancient maid, who, at the instigation of Thrall, had been commanded thus to masquerade. And the papers duly noted: "That the young society bud, who had abandoned all social delights for love of art, had arrived promptly at the stage-door, an aristocratic, white-haired lady--a relative--accompanying her, and waiting patiently during the entire rehearsal, thus disposing of the rumor that her family was bitterly opposing the step she was taking."

Truly Thrall was pulling the wires, even the very little wires, for small people must be made to dance as well as great ones, if your ballroom is to present a really animated appearance.

Miss Cora Manice was not in the bill, and her unnecessary presence at rehearsals met with such frowning disapproval from Thrall that she withdrew, but with a furious face that fully presaged, to those who understood, the tempest that burst later on, in that private office, whose secret, shade-hung door was never used.

The other members of the company were wholly indifferent as to whether the interloper sank or swam. Jim Roberts stood afar off, and watched with burning, eager eyes every movement the young girl made, and his swift antic.i.p.ation of her slightest wish soon attracted attention and comment; and one day some fellow said: "I believe Jim's gone back on Thrall, at last, and has taken a new master."

"No," replied Joseph Grant, "you mean a new mistress!" and this exquisite joke almost strangled maker and hearer with laughter.

The rehearsals were almost over. Scenery and properties took up much time, and made them very wearying, but there was a delightful break when Thrall made coffee in his office, and with Margaret, the ancient maid, doing propriety, in the corner, he served his "queen to be" with all the skill of a French waiter, and all the tenderness of a mother, while, with a hearty girl's appet.i.te, she disposed of dainty sandwiches, coffee, and fruit--save on that one day when she ran out and gave every blessed sandwich there was to a poor waif whom she saw from the window.

"Why did you not give him money?" Thrall asked.

"I had none," she frankly answered.

"You should have told me, then I would have given him something for you."

She frowned a bit, and answered: "He would not have dared enter any place about here, and I could not put him to the torture of waiting--forgive me!"

And one day--one threatening day, when gas was burning everywhere, so dark it was--Thrall told himself he could do no more for this creature who had grown so precious in his secret sight. Only one thing troubled his artistic sense: Sybil's Juliet was a trifle too frank--too boyishly honest in her love. The soft confusion, the flushing cheek and drooping eye, that sweetly contradict the open plainness of her speech, were missing. He knew why it was so; and when the artist in him asked if he would have it otherwise, the man, recalling that sick qualm of jealousy, answered: No! no!

Rehearsal being over, Sybil had sent old Margaret home in the carriage that Thrall had hired for them, and had herself turned downtown a few blocks, and had then gone across to a little shop, where stage shoes were to be tried on.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Van Camp will be angry if I leave you, Miss Sybil," the woman had protested. "There's an awful storm coming up, too!"

"Nonsense!" said the girl, who even then had to hold her hat on with both hands, so high was the wind. "Go on, G.o.d-mother needs you at once!

I'll be home in no time, but I can't leave those shoes another day.

Suppose they should be wrong in some way? By-by!" and, laughing, she faced the tearing wind.

Coming from the shop she felt the rain begin to fall. She fairly flew along the streets. Two cars pa.s.sed without heeding her signal. What should she do? The theatre? She had a right to seek shelter there, surely, and that way she rushed. A sign came hurling through the air!

She screamed, and the next moment dashed, damp, chill, dishevelled, into the vestibule.

At the bang of the great door young Barney, pale under the box-office gas-light, raised his head and looked through the little window, trying to see who was outside, but the darkness was almost that of night, and Sybil, catching her breath in gasps, said: "I beg your pardon, Mr.

Barney, I--I have just run in here for shelter--it's awful outside!

Don't you know me? I'm Miss--Miss--" She stopped, in confusion. A tall man was stooping to peer out over Barney's shoulder. Those well-shaped, amazingly brilliant eyes were unmistakable. Then a voice of incredulity, of pleased incredulity, was saying: "It's not Miss Lawton, alone in this fearful storm, surely?"

The door was pulled open, and through the out-streaming light came Stewart Thrall. His overcoat over one arm, and a closely furled umbrella in the hand, whose finger and thumb also held an unlit cigar, told plainly that he was just leaving, that had she been one single moment later she would have found only Barney in the theatre.

Only one moment, but, oh, there are single moments full, replete, and pregnant with possibilities--moments that may bring forth results dire and strange! William Henry Bulkley's one moment had been sufficient for the mad runaway of the big chestnut, and things more terrible than horses may fiercely break away from all restraint in equally brief time.

But Sybil, shaken, breathless, and embarra.s.sed in the dusk, made, unconsciously, a mental, never-to-be-forgotten portrait of Stewart Thrall standing in that informing stream of light--handsome, debonair, stately of height, and graceful of bearing, and on his face that eager look that made it strangely young.

He held his hand out: "Miss Lawton, is it really you? Why--good heaven, you are wet and cold!" The wind rattled windows, doors, and signs so that she could scarcely hear his words; but the warm pressure of his clasping hand was comforting to her. "Where is your carriage? eh? I can't hear you!"

Something, probably a billboard, fell with a crash against the door, and the girl gave a violent start of terror. Suddenly Thrall turned, still holding her hand fast. He cast his coat, umbrella, and cigar into the office, saying sharply to Barney: "I'm not here--to anyone! You understand?"

Barney looked up inquiringly. Their eyes met fully, and Thrall repeated: "Not to _anyone_!" And, closing the box-office door, he felt for the baize ones leading to the auditorium, pushed one leaf open and entered, drawing Sybil after him by the hand. As it closed he reached up and softly pushed the bolt.

Outside, in the office, Barney stared stupidly, then began a double shuffle, chuckling to himself: "Oh, wait till Manice gets on to this!

But one of these days the governor will stand up to her, and then she'll get a pointer on temper that will astonish her, I guess! He's too easy!

I wish he'd chuck her out of the company--spiteful, bleached cat!"

Undoubtedly a very vulgar-minded boy was Barney.

Inside the red baize doors Sybil was amazed to find almost perfect silence. The auditorium, being in the very middle of the building, was cut off from outer sounds. Even the wild shriek of the wind was greatly softened. The darkness seemed at first complete, but the accustomed eye could see a faint grayness at the stage end opposite them.

A row of open French boxes extended across the back of the lower circle.

Thrall laid his hat in a chair in one of them as he pa.s.sed, and still leading Sybil, said, in a cheerful, matter-of-course tone, intended to quiet any possible uneasiness of mind: "This way, Miss Lawton! Don't be afraid, there are no steps. The register is right in this corner, and there is at least enough heat on to dry your damp clothing. It would be a pretty serious thing, my young lady, for you to catch cold at this late hour. There, you can feel a little hot air, can't you?"

The building now fairly trembled under the force of the gale, and Thrall, with a tightening of his fingers on hers, asked, reproachfully: "In G.o.d's name, child, what induced you to face a storm like this? Tell me."

But in that warm, dark silence words would not come easily. She murmured something about "G.o.d-mamma's needing Margaret's services," paused, added a confused a.s.surance that her "stage shoes had proved satisfactory," and became mute.

The empty auditorium was vast, the white linen hangings, draping boxes and dress-circle, were mysterious as the swaying mosses of a Southern swamp. A sense of isolation came upon her, of distance from the world.

She did not seem to think consecutively, but in broken, fragmentary, foolish bits. She wondered why Mr. Thrall was so silent. Was it because--. She wondered if her dress was drying all around evenly--if her boots would spoil from the heat--her mother had thought them expensive, and--and how many nerves and pulses did one girl carry about with her? And why need they all quiver and beat at the same time?

She drew her hand gently from Thrall's, but he took up the other that was still in a wet and clammy glove. Silently, deftly unb.u.t.toning and peeling it off, he softly chafed the little member. Sybil drew a long, slow breath--what was it that troubled her?