At the hall where the Dramatic Club’s entertainments were given they
met Shepherd Mills, who confessed that he had been holding four seats
in the hope that they’d have pity on him and not let him sit alone.
“I’ve hardly seen Connie for a week,” he said. “This thing of having a
wife on the stage is certainly hard on the husband!”
The room was filled to capacity and there were many out of town guests,
whom Shep named proudly as though their presence were attributable to
the fact that Connie was on the program.
Whitford, in his ample leisure, had been putting new spirit into the
club, and the first two of the one-act plays that constituted the
bill disclosed new talent and were given with precision and finish.
Chief interest, however, lay in the third item of the bill, a short
poetic drama written by Whitford himself. The scene, revealed as the
curtain rose, was of Whitford’s own designing--the battlements of a
feudal castle, with a tower rising against a sweep of blue sky. The set
transcended anything that the club had seen in its long history and was
greeted with a quick outburst of applause. Whitford’s name passed over
the room, it seemed, in a single admiring whisper. George was a genius;
the town had never possessed anyone comparable to George Whitford, who
distinguished himself alike in war and in the arts of peace and could
afford to spend money with a free hand on amateur theatricals.
His piece, “The Beggar,” written in blank verse, was dated vaguely in
the Middle Ages and the device was one of the oldest known to romance.
A lord of high degree is experiencing the time-honored difficulty in
persuading his daughter of the desirability of marriage with a noble
young knight whose suit she has steadfastly scorned. The castle is
threatened; the knight’s assistance is imperatively needed; and the
arrival of messengers, the anxious concern of the servitors, induce at
once an air of tensity.
In the fading afternoon light Constance Mills, as the princess, who has
been wandering in the gardens, makes her entrance unconcernedly and
greets her distracted lover with light-hearted indifference. She begins
recounting a meeting with a beggar minstrel who has beguiled her with
his music. She provokingly insists upon singing snatches of his songs
to the irritated knight, who grows increasingly uneasy over the danger
to the beleagured castle. As the princess exits the beggar appears
and engages the knight in a colloquy, witty and good-humored on the
vagrant’s part, but marked by the knight’s mounting anger. Whitford,
handsome, jaunty, assured, even in his rags, with his shrewd retorts
evokes continuous laughter.
A renewed alarm calls the knight away, leaving the beggar thrumming his
lute. The princess reappears to the dimming of lights and the twinkle
in the blue background of the first tremulous star. The beggar, who of
course is the enemy prince in disguise, springs forward as she slips
out of her cloak and stands forth in a flowing robe in shimmering
white. Her interchange with the beggar passes swiftly from surprise,
indifference, scorn, to awakened interest and encouragement.
No theatre was ever stilled to an intenser silence. The audacity of
it, the folly of it! The pictorial beauty of the scene, any merit it
possessed as drama, were lost in the fact that George Whitford was
making love to Constance Mills. No make-believe could have simulated
the passion of his wooing in the lines that he had written for himself,
and no response could have been informed with more tenderness and charm
than Constance brought to her part.
Whitford was declaiming:
“My flower! My light, my life! I offer thee
Not jingling coin, nor lands, nor palaces,
But yonder stars, and the young moon of spring,
And rosy dawns and purple twilights long;
All singing streams, and their great lord the sea--
With these I’d thee endow.”
And Constance, slowly lifting her head, an enthralling picture of young
trusting love, replied:
“I am a beggar in my heart!
My soul hath need of thee! Teach me thy ways,
And make me partner in thy wanderings,
And lead me to the silver springs of song,
I would be free as thou art, roam the world,
Away from clanging war, by murmuring streams,
Through green cool woodlands sweet with peace and love....
Wilt thou be faithful, wilt thou love me long?”
To her tremulous pleading he pledged his fealty and when he had taken
her into his arms and kissed her they exited slowly. As they passed
from sight his voice was heard singing as the curtain fell.
The entire cast paraded in response to the vociferous and long
continued applause, and Whitford and Constance bowed their
acknowledgments together and singly. Cries of “author” detained
Whitford for a speech, in which he chaffed himself and promised that
in appreciation of their forbearance in allowing him to present so
unworthy a trifle, which derived its only value from the intelligence
and talent of his associates, he would never again tax their patience.
As the lights went up Bruce, turning to his companions, saw that
Shepherd was staring at the stage as though the players were still
visible. Helen, too, noticed the tense look in Shep’s face, and touched
him lightly on the arm. He came to with a start and looked about
quickly, as if conscious that his deep preoccupation had been observed.
“It was perfectly marvelous, Shep! Connie was never so beautiful, and
she did her part wonderfully!”
“Yes; Connie was fine! They were all splendid!” Shep stammered.
“I’ve seen her in plays before, but nothing to match tonight,” said
Helen. “You’ll share her congratulations--it’s a big night for the
family!”
They had all risen, and Millicent and Bruce added their
congratulations--Shep smiling but still a little dazed, his eyes
showing that he was thinking back--trying to remember, in the way of
one who has passed through an ordeal too swiftly for the memory fully
to record it.
“Constance was perfectly adorable!” said Millicent sincerely.
“Yes, yes!” Shep exclaimed. “I had no idea, really. She has acting
talent, hasn’t she?”
The question was not perfunctory; he was eager for their assurance that
they had been watching a clever piece of acting.
The room was being cleared for the dancing, and others near by were
expressing their admiration for his wife. Helen seized a moment to
whisper to Bruce:
“It rather knocked him. Be careful that he doesn’t run away. George
ought to be shot--Heaven knows there’s been enough talk already!”
“The only trouble is that they were a little too good, that’s all,”
said Bruce. “That oughtn’t to be a sin--when you remember what amateur
shows usually are!”
“It’s not to laugh!” Helen replied. “Shep’s terribly sensitive! He’s
not so stupid but he saw that George was enjoying himself making love
to Connie.”
“Well, who wouldn’t enjoy it!” Bruce answered.
The dancing had begun when Constance appeared on the floor. She had
achieved a triumph and it may have been that she was just a little
frightened now that it was over. As she held court near the stage,
smilingly receiving congratulations, she waved to Shep across the crowd.
“Was I so very bad?” she asked Bruce. “I was terribly nervous for fear
I’d forget my lines.”
“But you didn’t! It was the most enthralling half hour I ever spent.
I’m proud to know you!”
“Thank you, Bruce. Do something for me. These people bore me; tell Shep
to come and dance with me. Yes--with you afterwards.”
Whether it was kindness or contrition that prompted this request did
not matter. It sufficed that Connie gave her first dance to Shep and
that they glided over the floor with every appearance of blissful
happiness. Whitford was passing about, paying particular attention to
the mothers of debutantes, quite as unconcernedly as though he had not
given the club its greatest thrill....
As this was Millicent’s first appearance since her election to the
club, her sponsors were taking care that she met such of the members
as had not previously been within her social range. Franklin Mills’s
efforts to establish the Hardens had not been unavailing. Bruce,
watching her as she danced with a succession of partners, heard an
elderly army officer asking the name of the golden-haired girl who
carried herself so superbly.
Bruce was waiting for his next dance with her and not greatly
interested in what went on about him, when Dale Freeman accosted him.
“Just look at the girl! Seeing her dancing just like any other
perfectly healthy young being, you’d never think she had so many
wonderful things in her head and heart. Millie’s one of those people
who think with their hearts as well as their brains. When you find that
combination, sonny, you’ve got something!”
“Um--yes,” he assented glumly.
Dale looked up at him and laughed. “I’ll begin to suspect you’re in
love with her now if you act like this!”
“The suspicion does me honor!” he replied.
“Oh, I’m not going to push you! I did have some idea of helping you,
but I see it’s no use.”
“Really, none,” he answered soberly. And for a moment the old
unhappiness clutched him....
At one o’clock he left the hall with Helen and Millicent.
“I suppose the tongues will wag for a while,” Helen sighed wearily.
“But you’ve got to hand it to Constance and George! They certainly put
on a good show!”
At the Harden’s Bruce took Millicent’s key and unlocked the door.
“I’ve enjoyed this; it’s been fine,” she said and put out her hand.
“It was a pretty full evening,” he replied. “But there’s a part of it
I’ve stored away as better than the plays--even better than my dances
with you!”
“I know!” she said. “Helen’s salad!”
“Oh, better even than that! The talk at the table--your talk! I must
thank you for that!”
“Oh, please forget! I believe I’d rather you’d remember our last dance!”
She laughed light-heartedly and the door closed.
“They’ve done it now!” exclaimed Helen as the car rolled on. “Why will
people be such fools! To think they had to go and let the whole town
into the secret!”
“Cease worrying! If they’d really cared anything for each other they
couldn’t have done it.”
“George would--it was just the dare-devil sort of thing that George
Whitford _would_ do!”
“Well, you’re not troubled about me any more!” he laughed. “A little
while ago you thought Connie had designs on me! Has it got to be
someone?”
“That’s exactly it! It’s got to be someone with Connie!”
But when he had left her and was driving on to his apartment it was of
Millicent he thought, not of Constance and Whitford. It was astonishing
how much freer he felt now that the Atlantic rolled between him and
Franklin Mills.