COMPTON’S GREAT SCENARIO IS FINISHED NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON
Of course the next morning, as Bobby arose and dressed for Mass, gave
with its golden sunshine and balmy air every promise of a perfect day.
This was the only thing to be expected. Los Angeles, as far as Bobby
knew, had only one kind of weather. All the days since his arrival had
been gay, fragrant, cloudless, sunshiny days. The inhabitants of Los
Angeles never bothered to discuss the weather; it was not the fertile
topic of conversation that it is in the East. When they spoke of it, it
was simply to burst forth into paeans of praise, generally expressed in
the exclamation “Isn’t it a wonderful day!” and that always ended
further discussion.
“Good morning, Bobby,” said Mr. Compton, to Bobby’s surprise shaved and
dressed.
“Why, halloa! What got _you_ up?”
“I just thought, Bobby, I’d go along with you to Mass this morning.”
“Oh,” said Bobby, puckering his brows. “I suppose,” he went on after
some close conjecturing, “that you are going to church to pray for the
success of that part that didn’t go right yesterday.”
“That is one of the things I am going to pray for.”
“Anything else, uncle?”
“Bobby,” said Compton, ignoring the question, “did you sleep well last
night?”
“Not at first, uncle.”
“I thought so; you do not look quite up to form.”
“I need Holy Communion, uncle. Then after breakfast—I need that
too—then you watch me!”
“Bobby, I want to ask you another question. Did you hear anything
yesterday that worried you?”
“Oh, it’s all over now, I guess,” evaded the child.
“You were crying last night.”
“Who told you?”
“I thought I heard you moaning, and before I went to sleep I went into
your room. There were stains of tears on your pillow.”
“Uncle, there was a man yesterday, Benny Burnside, who tried to make me
think my mother was dead.”
Mr. Compton squeezed his lips together, and sparks shot from his eyes.
“If all the fools in Los Angeles were sentenced to death and all were
pardoned except one, he’s the one who would go hang. He’s a handsome
creature; but all his beauty isn’t anywhere near enough to make up for
the tremendous vacancy in his head. And did you believe him, Bobby?”
“He almost made me believe. That’s what I was fighting about before I
could get to sleep. But I did feel so mean!”
“There’s no sense, my boy, in giving up hope till you have to.”
“I say, uncle, you were worrying too last night. You don’t look right
yourself.”
As a matter of fact John Compton had passed a long and sleepless night.
“Well, suppose we toddle along,” he said, with a forced smile. So forth
went the two, each struggling for faith against an uneasiness born of a
foolish detective’s rash report.
Francis and Peggy were at Mass and went to communion. They wanted Bobby
to “put it over,” and directed the intention of their communion
accordingly. Pearl, though not a Catholic, was there too. She came to
pray, rather startling the worshipers at her entrance by going up the
aisle and making her prettiest little curtsy before the tabernacle. This
curtsy had won the hearts of many a stranger in the moment of
introduction. No doubt our Lord’s love for her, already great—for the
dear Lord who was once a child loves all children in a special way—went
out to her in a new excess.
Pearl, at the end of Mass, repeated the curtsy, which would have won her
distinction in any earthly court—and why not in the heavenly?—and went
outside, where she continued to smile and bow at the returning
worshipers as though they were all friends of hers. And so far as she
was concerned, so they were, God bless her!
“Good morning, Bobby; good morning, everybody!” she cried, as she shook
the hand of Compton, Bobby, Francis and Peggy, dispensing as she did so
a running stream of smiles. “It’s going to be all right. I just know
it’s going to be all right. Bobby, you’re just sure to put it over.”
“It’s going to be the greatest day of all,” chimed in Francis.
“We’ll be finished before noontime,” added Peggy. “And you’ll see, Mr.
Compton,” she went on, fixing large, earnest, questioning eyes upon
Compton, “that we haven’t been praying for nothing.”
“I believe you, my dear,” returned Compton humbly.
And Peggy, who knew something about Compton’s religious, or rather
irreligious, convictions, wondered.
“I’m hungry,” said Bob.
“So am I,” said Pearl. “You see, I couldn’t go to communion, but I could
fast and I did.”
“Then,” said Compton, greatly cheered by the simple, loving little
company, “we’ll all breakfast at the restaurant right below here.”
The two girls and Francis protested that their mothers would be worried;
whereupon Compton let loose their arrested joy by assuring them that he
would telephone each proper home and make himself responsible for the
whole party.
The breakfast was a success, an abundance of watermelon and cream cakes
being large factors, and off they hopped and danced, light as birds and
immeasurably gayer, to the last rehearsal.
Miss Bernadette Vivian had preceded them. She too had had a white night.
The day before she had confided to the amicable clerk who kept the
visitor’s gate and answered the telephone at the Lantry Studio the story
of her great romance. She had made it clear to that amiable young lady
that her engagement was as good as settled, that her Romeo, in addition
to a personal pulchritude beyond power of words to describe, was as
wealthy as Colossus—meaning, no doubt, Crœsus—that he had four
automobiles and a country villa in addition to a home worth at least
thirty thousand dollars: to all of which the gentle and sympathetic
young lady, discounting each of these statements by at least fifty per
cent, lent an attentive ear. Now it occurred to Vivian that, since there
was no secrecy enjoined, the young lady might make her romance known.
Hence it was that, unable to sleep, she hastened down to the studio
bright and early with her revised version of love’s young dream.
“Do you know,” she said, after an affectionate exchange of greetings,
“that I am thinking seriously of entering a convent?”
“That would be very sweet of you,” said Miss Cortland. “But you don’t
want to break the heart of that young man, do you?”
“That young man,” said Miss Vivian darkly, “has no heart to break!”
“Dear me! Aren’t you going to be engaged to him?”
“We were engaged.”
“But you didn’t tell me that.”
“It only happened last night. We were engaged for over ten minutes.”
“And then?” interrupted Miss Cortland.
“Oh, I’m sick and tired of all men!” ejaculated Vivian, clasping her
hands. “They have no ideals! They are so—so common! I’ve always found
that out before it was too late. I’d like to hear what they’ll say when
I go into a convent.”
“Did you have a quarrel, Vivian?”
“I never quarrel,” returned the young lady with dignity. “We had a
difference of opinion, and I discovered that his ideals were not mine.”
By ideals Miss Vivian must have meant diamonds. The kind she wanted for
her engagement was the kind her swain disliked.
“Well, anyhow, I’ve learnt a good lesson. And, oh, I’m so miserable! I
slept badly, and I feel like going to Ocean Park and throwing myself
into the sea. Upon my word, I believe I will!”
Miss Cortland was minded to point out to the distressed damsel that
throwing herself into the ocean and entering a convent were hardly
compatible; but, thinking better of it, she observed:
“This is your fifth case, isn’t it?”
“My seventh,” retorted Vivian, indignantly, and left the office in a
huff.
To set at rest the minds of Miss Vivian’s many admirers, it may be
stated that she did not enter a convent, nor has the ocean received her
into its insatiable maw. She realizes still that there are lots of good
fish in the sea, and, though she nets one every month or so, she has not
yet caught a fish that quite measures up to her expectations. Her
present romance is now number eleven.
“Say, Bobby,” whispered Francis, as they repaired to the scene of their
final rehearsal, “do you want to shed real tears in the part where you
meet your mother?”
“I’d like to,” returned Bobby.
“Well, I’ve got a trick to do it. It’s a pinch I learned from a fellow.
It doesn’t make a mark, but it will smart like fun and bring the tears.
Now, if you need it, just let me know; we’ve got to put this across.”
As the event proved, Francis was not called upon to reduce Bobby to
tears. Bobby, thinking of his own dear mother, and grieving for her the
more bitterly for the ugly rumor which had left him sleepless, found it
an easy task to imagine Bernadette to be Mrs. Vernon, with the result
that his acting was clearly more perfect than it had been on the
preceding day. As for Vivian, that volatile young lady, a flapper
yesterday, was now persuaded that she was refined by a bitter
experience, that all love leading toward matrimony was vanity and
affliction of spirit, and that children were the most interesting and
lovable things in the world. Thus chastened by these reflections, she
put on a more mature air, diffused an atmosphere of sorrow akin to
despair, and, to the astonishment and delight of Heneman, Compton and
all the players, went through her part in a manner that touched the
hearts of all.
“Great!” cried Heneman. “Now get ready for the camera! Ready? Shoot!”
Pearl, Peggy and Francis were all in the set. Pearl, as the magnate’s
daughter, had already met her mother when Bobby entered. He sees the
magnate’s wife standing palpitating and holding out tender arms. He
stares, breaks into a radiant smile of happiness, cries out “Mother!”
rushes into her arms and weeps upon her bosom.
“Done!” announced Heneman, rubbing his eyes. “It’s perfect.—Why, what’s
the matter, Bobby?”
For Bobby, released from Vivian’s arms, was weeping bitterly.
“Are you ill, my boy?” asked Compton, rushing over and putting an arm
about the lad’s neck.
“I—I was th-thinking of my own dear mother,” sobbed Bobby. As he spoke
he raised his eyes. A moment later they grew wide in astonishment,
wonder and incredulity.
“And there she is!” he exclaimed, darting forward to meet a woman now
hurrying toward him.
In a moment Bobby, weeping and laughing, was rushing into the arms of
his own dear mother.
It was a tensely dramatic moment. Those concerned in the play gazed in
awe; then realizing the tremendous strain thus taken off mother and son,
they entered into the joy of the moment.
Compton was the first to advance and greet the happy mother.
“You remember me, Barbara?”
“Indeed and indeed I do! I was thinking of you yesterday—thinking of
the past. And I have something that I want to say to you.”
“He’s the best man in the world, mamma,” said Bobby enthusiastically.
“He’s treated me as though I were his own son. Why, uncle, why have you
got your head down?”
“I didn’t know it,” said Compton. “But anyhow, I do not feel fit to look
upon your dear mother’s face.”
The impending awkwardness was averted by the quick approach of the three
children.
“Oh, Mrs. Vernon!” exclaimed Peggy, her dark eyes luminous and her olive
complexion alive with rosy emotion, “I’m almost as happy as you!” And
Peggy threw her arms about Barbara’s neck.
“Dear little Peggy,” and Mrs. Vernon returned the embrace.
“And,” Peggy went on, running her words into one another, “you know it
was so stupid of me to tell you Bobby was dead. Oh, I’m so glad!”
“May I kiss you, ma’am?” said Pearl, with her charming smile and her
graceful curtsy as Peggy slipped aside. “I’m one of Bobby’s friends,
too.”
“And I too,” said Francis. And Mrs. Vernon, flushed and radiant, fondly
kissed the two children, who in their expressions of delight fell little
short of Bobby himself.
By this time many of the elders had gathered about the reunited pair,
and all in their various ways extended their felicitations. Bernadette
Vivian was so overcome with emotion that she had to be led away by her
attendant. It was a moment of tension.
“Come, Mrs. Vernon,” whispered Compton; “my automobile is waiting
outside. I am sure you want to get away and have Bobby to yourself.”
Saying which, he conducted her away with her boy still clinging to her,
and was presently whirling homeward.
“But, mother,” said Bobby, resting in her arms, “what became of you?
Uncle John had detectives looking all over for you.”
Mrs. Vernon explained in a few words the reason of her long
disappearance.
“And,” she added, “when I saw you on the screen yesterday, I went to the
manager of the theater and found out where you had been working. He was
most kind. He inquired and learned that a train three hours late would
pass at eleven o’clock that night. He took care of me and saw me aboard.
Mr. Regan and his family wanted to see me off. Bobby, if we wish, we can
have a home with them.”
“Bobby’s not poor,” said Compton. “There’s twenty-four hundred dollars
to his credit in the bank just now.”
“And it’s all yours, mother. I was working for you.”
When they entered John Compton’s suite, Barbara gazed about the
sitting-room in pleased surprise. There was a change in the room since
Bobby’s first entrance there. Most of the photographs were gone, and
most prominent of all the pictures adorning the walls was a beautiful
engraving of a guardian angel tenderly watching his innocent charge, a
little boy, in years and appearance resembling Barbara’s son.
“What!” she exclaimed, blushing prettily. “Do you believe in angels,
John Compton?”
“I do! Indeed I do! And I learned that sweet belief from your own little
boy’s example.”
“Then,” pursued Mrs. Vernon, “then you must believe in God.”
“Barbara,” responded Compton, with a catch in his voice, “it must have
been God who sent your boy to me. He has changed my life. For several
weeks, though Bobby doesn’t know it, I have been receiving instructions
from Father Mallory—”
“What’s that?” cried Bobby eagerly.
“And to-morrow I am to be received into the Catholic Church.”