Merton Gill awoke to the comforting realization that he was between
sheets instead of blankets, and that this morning he need not obscurely
leave his room by means of a window. As he dressed, however, certain
misgivings, to which he had been immune the day before, gnawed into
his optimism. He was sober now. The sheer intoxication of food after
fasting, of friendly concern after so long a period when no one had
spoken him kindly or otherwise, had evaporated. He felt the depression
following success.
He had been rescued from death by starvation, but had anything more
than this come about? Had he not fed upon the charity of a strange girl,
taking her money without seeing ways to discharge the debt? How could he
ever discharge it? Probably before this she had begun to think of him as
a cheat. She had asked him to come to the lot, but had been vague as to
the purpose. Probably his ordeal of struggle and sacrifice was not yet
over. At any rate, he must find a job that would let him pay back the
borrowed twenty-five dollars.
He would meet her as she had requested, assure her of his honest
intentions, and then seek for work. He would try all the emporiums
in Hollywood. They were numerous and some one of them would need
the services of an experienced assistant. This plan of endeavour
crystallized as he made his way to the Holden lot. He had brought his
package of stills, but only because the girl had insisted on seeing
them.
The Countess made nothing of letting him in. She had missed him, she
said, for what seemed like months, and was glad to hear that he now
had something definite in view, because the picture game was mighty
uncertain and it was only the lucky few nowadays that could see
something definite. He did not confide to her that the definite
something now within his view would demand his presence at some distance
from her friendly self.
He approached the entrance to Stage Five with head bent in calculation,
and not until he heard her voice did he glance up to observe that
the Montague girl was dancing from pleasure, it would seem, at merely
beholding him. She seized both his hands in her strong grasp and
revolved him at the centre of a circle she danced. Then she held him off
while her eyes took in the details of his restoration.
“Well, well, well! That shows what a few ham and eggs and sleep will
do. Kid, you gross a million at this minute. New suit, new shoes, snappy
cravat right from the Men’s Quality Shop, and all shaved and combed
slick and everything! Say--and I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t show.”
He regarded her earnestly. “Oh, I would have come back, all right; I’d
never forget that twenty-five dollars I owe you; and you’ll get it
all back, only it may take a little time. I thought I’d see you for a
minute, then go out and find a job--you know, a regular job in a store.”
“Nothing of the sort, old Trouper!” She danced again about him, both
his hands in hers, which annoyed him because it was rather loud public
behaviour, though he forgave her in the light of youth and kindliness.
“No regular job for you, old Pippin--nothing but acting all over the
place--real acting that people come miles to see.”
“Do you think I can really get a part?” Perhaps the creature had
something definite in view for him.
“Sure you can get a part! Yesterday morning I simply walked into a part
for you. Come along over to the office with me. Goody--I see you brought
the stills. I’ll take a peek at ‘em myself before Baird gets here.”
“Baird? Not the Buckeye comedy man?” He was chilled by a sudden fear.
“Yes, Jeff Baird. You see he is going to do some five--reelers and this
first one has a part that might do for you. At least, I told him some
things about you, and he thinks you can get away with it.”
He went moodily at her side, thinking swift thoughts. It seemed
ungracious to tell her of his loathing for the Buckeye comedies, those
blasphemous caricatures of worth-while screen art. It would not be fair.
And perhaps here was a quick way to discharge his debt and be free of
obligation to the girl. Of course he would always feel a warm gratitude
for her trusting kindness, but when he no longer owed her money he could
choose his own line of work. Rather bondage to some Hollywood Gashwiler
than clowning in Baird’s infamies!
“Well, I’ll try anything he gives me,” he said at last, striving for the
enthusiasm he could not feel.
“You’ll go big, too,” said the girl. “Believe, me Kid, you’ll go grand.”
In Baird’s offices he sat at the desk and excitedly undid the package
of stills. “We’ll give ‘em the once-over before he comes,” she said,
and was presently exclaiming with delight at the art study of Clifford
Armytage in evening dress, two straight fingers pressing the left
temple, the face in three-quarter view.
“Well, now, if that ain’t Harold Parmalee to the life! If it wasn’t for
that Clifford Armytage signed under it, you’d had me guessing. I knew
yesterday you looked like him, but I didn’t dream it would be as much
like him as this picture is. Say, we won’t show Baird this at first.
We’ll let him size you up and see if your face don’t remind him of
Parmalee right away. Then we’ll show him this and it’ll be a cinch. And
my, look at these others--here you’re a soldier, and here you’re a-a-a
polo player--that is polo, ain’t it, or is it tennis? And will you
look at these stunning Westerns! These are simply the best of all--on
horseback, and throwing a rope, and the fighting face with the gun
drawn, and rolling a cigarette--and, as I live, saying good-by to the
horse. Wouldn’t that get you--Buck Benson to the life!”
Again and again she shuffled over the stills, dwelling on each with
excited admiration. Her excitement was pronounced. It seemed to be a
sort of nervous excitement. It had caused her face to flush deeply,
and her manner, especially over the Western pictures, at moments oddly
approached hysteria. Merton was deeply gratified. He had expected the
art studies to produce no such impression as this. The Countess in
the casting office had certainly manifested nothing like hysteria at
beholding them. It must be that the Montague girl was a better judge of
art studies.
“I always liked this one, after the Westerns,” he observed, indicating
the Harold Parmalee pose.
“It’s stunning,” agreed the girl, still with her nervous manner. “I tell
you, sit over there in Jeff’s chair and take the same pose, so I can
compare you with the photo.”
Merton obliged. He leaned an elbow on the chair-arm and a temple on the
two straightened fingers. “Is the light right?” he asked, as he turned
his face to the pictured angle.
“Fine,” applauded the girl. “Hold it.” He held it until shocked by
shrill laughter from the observer. Peal followed peal. She had seemed
oddly threatened with hysteria; perhaps now it had come. She rocked on
her heels and held her hands to her sides. Merton arose in some alarm,
and was reassured when the victim betrayed signs of mastering her
infirmity. She wiped her eyes presently and explained her outbreak.
“You looked so much like Parmalee I just couldn’t help thinking how
funny it was--it just seemed to go over me like anything, like a spasm
or something, when I got to thinking what Parmalee would say if he saw
someone looking so much like him. See? That was why I laughed.”
He was sympathetic and delighted in equal parts. The girl had really
seemed to suffer from her paroxysm, yet it was a splendid tribute to his
screen worth.
It was at this moment that Baird entered. He tossed his hat on a chair
and turned to the couple.
“Mr. Baird, shake hands with my friend Merton Gill. His stage name is
Clifford Armytage.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Merton, grasping the extended hand.
He hoped he had not been too dignified, too condescending. Baird would
sometime doubtless know that he did not approve of those so-called
comedies, but for the present he must demean himself to pay back some
money borrowed from a working girl.
“Delighted,” said Baird; then he bent a suddenly troubled gaze upon the
Gill lineaments. He held this a long moment, breaking it only with a
sudden dramatic turning to Miss Montague.
“What’s this, my child? You’re playing tricks on the old man.” Again
he incredulously scanned the face of Merton. “Who is this man?” he
demanded.
“I told you, he’s Merton Gill from Gushwomp, Ohio,” said the girl,
looking pleased and expectant.
“Simsbury, Illinois,” put in Merton quickly, wishing the girl could be
better at remembering names.
Baird at last seemed to be convinced. He heavily smote an open palm with
a clenched fist. “Well, I’ll be swoshed! I thought you must be kidding.
If I’d seen him out on the lot I’d ‘a’ said he was the twin brother of
Harold Parmalee.”
“There!” exclaimed the girl triumphantly. “Didn’t I say he’d see it
right quick? You can’t keep a thing from this old bey. Now you just
came over here to this desk and look at this fine batch of stills he had
taken by a regular artist back in Cranberry.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Baird unctuously, “I bet they’re good. Show me.” He went
to the desk. “Be seated, Mr. Gill, while I have a look at these.”
Merton Gill, under the eye of Baird which clung to him with something
close to fascination, sat down. He took the chair with fine dignity,
a certain masterly deliberation. He sat easily, and seemed to await a
verdict confidently foreknown. Baird’s eyes did not leave him for the
stills until he had assumed a slightly Harold Parmalee pose. Then his
head with the girl’s bent over the pictures, he began to examine them.
Exclamations of delight came from the pair. Merton Gill listened
amiably. He was not greatly thrilled by an admiration which he had
long believed to be his due. Had he not always supposed that things of
precisely this sort would be said about those stills when at last they
came under the eyes of the right people?
Like the Montague girl, Baird was chiefly impressed with the Westerns.
He looked a long time at them, especially at the one where Merton’s
face was emotionally averted from his old pal, Pinto, at the moment of
farewell. Regarding Baird, as he stood holding this art study up to the
light, Merton became aware for the first time that Baird suffered from
some nervous affliction, a peculiar twitching of the lips, a trembling
of the chin, which he had sometimes observed in senile persons. All
at once Baird seemed quite overcome by this infirmity. He put a
handkerchief to his face and uttered a muffled excuse as he hastily left
the room. Outside, the noise of his heavy tread died swiftly away down
the hall.
The Montague girl remained at the desk. There was a strange light in her
eyes and her face was still flushed. She shot a glance of encouragement
at Merton.
“Don’t be nervous, old Kid; he likes ‘em all right.” He reassured her
lightly: “Oh, I’m not a bit nervous about him. It ain’t as if he was
doing something worth while, instead of mere comedies.”
The girl’s colour seemed to heighten. “You be sure to tell him that;
talk right up to him. Be sure to say ‘mere comedies.’ It’ll show him
you know what’s what. And as a matter of fact, Kid, he’s trying to do
something worth while, right this minute, something serious. That’s why
he’s so interested in you.”
“Well, of course, that’s different.” He was glad to learn this of
Baird. He would take the man seriously if he tried to be serious, to do
something fine and distinctive.
Baird here returned, looking grave. The Montague girl seemed more
strangely intense. She beckoned the manager to her side.
“Now, here, Jeff, here was something I just naturally had to laugh at.”
Baird had not wholly conquered those facial spasms, but he controlled
himself to say, “Show me!”
“Now, Merton,” directed the girl, “take that same pose again, like you
did for me, the way you are in this picture.”
As Merton adjusted himself to the Parmalee pose she handed the picture
to Baird. “Now, Jeff, I ask you--ain’t that Harold to the life--ain’t it
so near him that you just have to laugh your head off?”
It was even so. Baird and the girl both laughed convulsively, the former
with rumbling chuckles that shook his frame. When he had again composed
himself he said, “Well, Mr. Gill, I think you and I can do a little
business. I don’t know what your idea about a contract is, but--”
Merton Gill quickly interrupted. “Well, you see I’d hardly like to
sign a contract with you, not for those mere comedies you do. I’ll do
anything to earn a little money right now so I can pay back this
young lady, but I wouldn’t like to go on playing in such things, with
cross-eyed people and waiters on roller skates, and all that. What
I really would like to do is something fine and worth while, but not
clowning in mere Buckeye comedies.”
Mr. Baird, who had devoted the best part of an active career to the
production of Buckeye comedies, and who regarded them as at least one
expression of the very highest art, did not even flinch at these cool
words. He had once been an actor himself. Taking the blow like a man, he
beamed upon his critic. “Exactly, my boy; don’t you think I’ll ever ask
you to come down to clowning. You might work with me for years and I’d
never ask you to do a thing that wasn’t serious. In fact, that’s why I’m
hoping to engage you now. I want to do a serious picture, I want to get
out of all that slap-stick stuff, see? Something fine and worth while,
like you say. And you’re the very actor I need in this new piece.”
“Well, of course, in that case--” This was different; he made it plain
that in the case of a manager striving for higher things he was not one
to withhold a helping hand. He was beginning to feel a great sympathy
for Baird in his efforts for the worth while. He thawed somewhat from
the reserve that Buckeye comedies had put upon him. He chatted amiably.
Under promptings from the girl he spoke freely of his career, both in
Simsbury and in Hollywood. It was twelve o’clock before they seemed
willing to let him go, and from time to time they would pause to gloat
over the stills.
At last Baird said cheerily, “Well, my lad, I need you in my new piece.
How’ll it be if I put you on my payroll, beginning to-day, at forty a
week? How about it, hey?”
“Well, I’d like that first rate, only I haven’t worked any to-day; you
shouldn’t pay me for just coming here.”
The manager waved a hand airily. “That’s all right, my boy; you’ve
earned a day’s salary just coming here to cheer me up. These mere
comedies get me so down in the dumps sometimes. And besides, you’re not
through yet. I’m going to use you some more. Listen, now--” The manager
had become coldly businesslike. “You go up to a little theatre on
Hollywood Boulevard--you can’t miss it--where they’re running a Harold
Parmalee picture. I saw it last night and I want you to see it to-day.
Better see it afternoon and evening both.”
“Yes, sir,” said Merton.
“And watch Parmalee. Study him in this picture. You look like him
already, but see if you can pick up some of his tricks, see what I mean?
Because it’s a regular Parmalee part I’m going to have you do, see?
Kind of a society part to start with, and then we work in some of your
Western stuff at the finish. But get Parmalee as much as you can. That’s
all now. Oh, yes, and can you leave these stills with me? Our publicity
man may want to use them later.”
“All right, Mr. Baird, I’ll do just what you say, and of course you can
keep the stills as long as I got an engagement with you, and I’m very
glad you’re trying to do something really worth while.”
“Thanks,” said Baird, averting his face.
The girl followed him into the hall. “Great work, boy, and take it from
me, you’ll go over. Say, honest now, I’m glad clear down into my boots.”
She had both his hands again, and he could see that her eyes were moist.
She seemed to be an impressionable little thing, hysterical one minute
while looking at a bunch of good stills, and sort of weepy the next. But
he was beginning to like her, in spite of her funny talk and free ways.
“And say,” she called after him when he had reached the top of the
stairs, “you know you haven’t had much experience yet with a bunch of
hard-boiled troupers; many a one will be jealous of you the minute you
begin to climb, and maybe they’ll get fresh and try to kid you, see? But
don’t you mind it--give it right back to them. Or tell me if they get
too raw. Just remember I got a mean right when I swing free.”
“All right, thank you,” he replied, but his bewilderment was plain.
She stared a moment, danced up to him, and seized a hand in both of
hers. “What I mean son, if you feel bothered any time--by anything--just
come to me with it, see? I’m in this piece, and I’ll look out for you.
Don’t forget that.” She dropped his hand, and was back in the office
while he mumbled his thanks for what he knew she had meant as a
kindness.
So she was to be in the Baird piece; she, too, would be trying to give
the public something better and finer. Still, he was puzzled at her
believing he might need to be looked out for. An actor drawing forty
dollars a week could surely look out for himself. He emerged into the
open of the Holden lot as one who had at last achieved success after
long and gruelling privation. He walked briefly among the scenes of this
privation, pausing in reminiscent mood before the Crystal Palace Hotel
and other outstanding spots where he had so stoically suffered the
torments of hunger and discouragement.
He remembered to be glad now that no letter of appeal had actually gone
to Gashwiler. Suppose he had built up in the old gentleman’s mind a
false hope that he might again employ Merton Gill? A good thing he had
held out! Yesterday he was starving and penniless; to-day he was fed
and on someone’s payroll for probably as much money a week as Gashwiler
netted from his entire business. From sheer force of association, as he
thus meditated, he found himself hungry, and a few moments later he was
selecting from the food counter of the cafeteria whatever chanced to
appeal to the eye--no weighing of prices now.
Before he had finished his meal Henshaw and his so-called Governor
brought their trays to the adjoining table. Merton studied with new
interest the director who would some day be telling people that he had
been the first to observe the aptitude of this new star--had, in
fact, given him a lot of footage and close-ups and medium shots and
“dramatics” in The Blight of Broadway when he was a mere extra--before
he had made himself known to the public in Jeff Baird’s first
worth-while piece.
He was strongly moved, now, to bring himself to Henshaw’s notice when he
heard the latter say, “It’s a regular Harold Parmalee part, good light
comedy, plenty of heart interest, and that corking fight on the cliff.”
He wanted to tell Henshaw that he himself was already engaged to do
a Harold Parmalee part, and had been told, not two hours ago, that he
would by most people be taken for Parmalee’s twin brother. He restrained
this impulse, however, as Henshaw went on to talk of the piece in hand.
It proved to be Robinson Crusoe, which he had already discussed. Or,
rather, not Robinson Crusoe any longer. Not even Robinson Crusoe,
Junior. It was to have been called Island Passion, he learned, but this
title had been amended to Island Love.
“They’re getting fed up on that word ‘passion,’” Henshaw was saying,
“and anyhow, ‘love’ seems to go better with ‘island,’ don’t you think,
Governor? ‘Desert Passion’ was all right--there’s something strong and
intense about a desert. But ‘island’ is different.”
And it appeared that Island Love, though having begun as Robinson
Crusoe, would contain few of the outstanding features of that tale.
Instead of Crusoe’s wrecked sailing-ship, there was a wrecked steam
yacht, a very expensive yacht stocked with all modern luxuries, nor
would there be a native Friday and his supposed sister with the tattooed
shoulder, but a wealthy young New Yorker and his valet who would be good
for comedy on a desert island, and a beautiful girl, and a scoundrel who
would in the last reel be thrown over the cliffs.
Henshaw was vivacious about the effects he would get. “I’ve been
wondering, Governor,” he continued, “if we’re going to kill off the
heavy, whether we shouldn’t plant it early that besides wanting this
girl who’s on the island, he’s the same scoundrel that wronged the young
sister of the lead that owns the yacht. See what I mean?-it would give
more conflict.”
“But here--” The Governor frowned and spoke after a moment’s pause.
“Your young New Yorker is rich, isn’t he? Fine old family, and all that,
how could he have a sister that would get wronged? You couldn’t do it.
If he’s got a wronged sister, he’d have to be a workingman or a sailor
or something. And she couldn’t be a New York society girl; she’d have
to be working some place, in a store or office--don’t you see? How could
you have a swell young New Yorker with a wronged sister? Real society
girls never get wronged unless their father loses his money, and then
it’s never anything serious enough to kill a heavy for. No--that’s out.”
“Wait, I have it.” Henshaw beamed with a new inspiration. “You just
said a sailor could have his sister wronged, so why not have one on the
yacht, a good strong type, you know, and his little sister was wronged
by the heavy, and he’d never known who it was, because the little
girl wouldn’t tell him, even on her death-bed, but he found the chap’s
photograph in her trunk, and on the yacht he sees that it was this same
heavy--and there you are. Revenge--see what I mean? He fights with the
heavy on the cliff, after showing him the little sister’s picture,
and pushes him over to death on the rocks below--get it? And the
lead doesn’t have to kill him. How about that?” Henshaw regarded his
companion with pleasant anticipation.
The Governor again debated before he spoke. He still doubted. “Say,
whose show is this, the lead’s or the sailor’s that had the wronged
sister? You’d have to show the sailor and his sister, and show her being
wronged by the heavy--that’d take a big cabaret set, at least--and you’d
have to let the sailor begin his stuff on the yacht, and then by the
time he’d kept it up a bit after the wreck had pulled off the fight,
where would your lead be? Can you see Parmalee playing second to this
sailor? Why, the sailor’d run away with the piece. And that cabaret set
would cost money when we don’t need it--just keep those things in mind a
little.”
“Well,” Henshaw submitted gracefully, “anyway, I think my suggestion
of Island Love is better than Island Passion--kind of sounds more
attractive, don’t you think?”
The Governor lighted a cigarette. “Say, Howard, it’s a wonderful
business, isn’t it? We start with poor old Robinson Crusoe and his goats
and parrot and man Friday, and after dropping Friday’s sister who would
really be the Countess of Kleig, we wind up with a steam-yacht and a
comic butler and call it Island Love. Who said the art of the motion
picture is in its infancy? In this case it’ll be plumb senile. Well, go
ahead with the boys and dope out your hogwash. Gosh! Sometimes I think I
wouldn’t stay in the business if it wasn’t for the money. And remember,
don’t you let a single solitary sailor on that yacht have a wronged
sister that can blame it on the heavy, or you’ll never have Parmalee
playing the lead.”
Again Merton Gill debated bringing himself to the notice of these
gentlemen. If Parmalee wouldn’t play the part for any reason like a
sailor’s wronged sister, he would. It would help him to be known in
Parmalee parts. Still, he couldn’t tell how soon they might need him,
nor how soon Baird would release him. He regretfully saw the two men
leave, however. He might have missed a chance even better than Baird
would give him.
He suddenly remembered that he had still a professional duty to perform.
He must that afternoon, and also that evening, watch a Harold Parmalee
picture. He left the cafeteria, swaggered by the watchman at the gate-he
had now the professional standing to silence that fellow-and made his
way to the theatre Baird had mentioned.
In front he studied the billing of the Parmalee picture. It was “Object,
Matrimony-a Smashing Comedy of Love and Laughter.” Harold Parmalee, with
a gesture of mock dismay, seemed to repulse a bevy of beautiful maidens
who wooed him. Merton took his seat with a dismay that was not mock,
for it now occurred to him that he had no experience in love scenes,
and that an actor playing Parmalee parts would need a great deal of such
experience. In Simsbury there had been no opportunity for an intending
actor to learn certain little niceties expected at sentimental moments.
Even his private life had been almost barren of adventures that might
now profit him.
He had sometimes played kissing games at parties, and there had been the
more serious affair with Edwina May Pulver-nights when he had escorted
her from church or sociables to the Pulver gate and lingered in a sort
of nervously worded ecstasy until he could summon courage to kiss the
girl. Twice this had actually happened, but the affair had come to
nothing, because the Pulvers had moved away from Simsbury and he had
practically forgotten Edwina May; forgotten even the scared haste of
those embraces. He seemed to remember that he had grabbed her and kissed
her, but was it on her cheek or nose?
Anyway, he was now quite certain that the mechanics of this dead amour
were not those approved of in the best screen circles. Never had he
gathered a beauteous girl in his arms and very slowly, very accurately,
very tenderly, done what Parmalee and other screen actors did in their
final fade-outs. Even when Beulah Baxter had been his screen ideal he
had never seen himself as doing more than save her from some dreadful
fate. Of course, later, if he had found out that she was unwed--
He resolved now to devote special study to Parmalee’s methods of wooing
the fair creature who would be found in his arms at the close of the
present film. Probably Baird would want some of that stuff from him.
From the very beginning of “Object, Matrimony” it was apparent that the
picture drama would afford him excellent opportunities for studying the
Parmalee technique in what an early subtitle called “The Eternal Battle
of the Sexes.” For Parmalee in the play was Hubert Throckmorton,
popular screen idol and surfeited with the attentions of adoring women.
Cunningly the dramatist made use of Parmalee’s own personality, of
his screen triumphs, and of the adulation lavished upon him by
discriminating fair ones. His breakfast tray was shown piled with
missives amply attesting the truth of what the interviewer had said of
his charm. All women seemed to adore Hubert Throckmorton in the drama,
even as all women adored Harold Parmalee in private life.
The screen revealed Throckmorton quite savagely ripping open the
letters, glancing at their contents and flinging them from him with
humorous shudders. He seemed to be asking why these foolish creatures
couldn’t let an artist alone. Yet he was kindly, in this half-humorous,
half-savage mood. There was a blending of chagrin and amused tolerance
on his face as the screen had him murmur, casting the letter aside,
“Poor, Silly Little Girls!”
From this early scene Merton learned Parmalee’s method of withdrawing
the gold cigarette case, of fastidiously selecting a cigarette, of
closing the case and of absently--thinking of other matters--tamping
the gold-tipped thing against the cover. This was an item that he had
overlooked. He should have done that in the cabaret scene. He also
mastered the Parmalee trick of withdrawing the handkerchief from the
cuff of the perfectly fitting morning coat. That was something else he
should have done in The Blight of Broadway. Little things like that,
done right, gave the actor his distinction.
The drama progressed. Millionaire Jasper Gordon, “A Power in Wall
Street,” was seen telephoning to Throckmorton. He was entreating the
young actor to spend the week-end at his palatial Long Island country
home to meet a few of his friends. The grim old Wall Street magnate was
perturbed by Throckmorton’s refusal, and renewed his appeal. He was
one of those who always had his way in Wall Street, and he at length
prevailed upon Throckmorton to accept his invitation. He than manifested
the wildest delight, and he was excitedly kissed by his beautiful
daughter who had been standing by his side in the sumptuous library
while he telephoned. It could be seen that the daughter, even more than
her grim old father, wished Mr. Throckmorton to be at the Long Island
country home.
Later Throckmorton was seen driving his high-powered roadster,
accompanied only by his valet, to the Gordon country home on Long
Island, a splendid mansion surrounded by its landscaped grounds where
fountains played and roses bloomed against the feathery background of
graceful eucalyptus trees. Merton Gill here saw that he must learn to
drive a high-powered roadster. Probably Baird would want some of that
stuff, too.
A round of country-house gaieties ensued, permitting Throckmorton to
appear in a series of perfectly fitting sports costumes. He was seen on
his favourite hunter, on the tennis courts, on the first tee of the golf
course, on a polo pony, and in the mazes of the dance. Very early it was
learned that the Gordon daughter had tired of mere social triumphs
and wished to take up screen acting in a serious way. She audaciously
requested Throckmorton to give her a chance as leading lady in his next
great picture.
He softened his refusal by explaining to her that acting was a difficult
profession and that suffering and sacrifice were necessary to round out
the artist. The beautiful girl replied that within ten days he would be
compelled to admit her rare ability as an actress, and laughingly they
wagered a kiss upon it. Merton felt that this was the sort of thing he
must know more about.
Throckmorton was courteously gallant in the scene. Even when he said,
“Shall we put up the stakes now, Miss Gordon?” it could be seen that he
was jesting. He carried this light manner through minor scenes with the
beautiful young girl friends of Miss Gordon who wooed him, lay in
wait for him, ogled and sighed. Always he was the laughingly tolerant
conqueror who had but a lazy scorn for his triumphs.
He did not strike the graver note until it became suspected that there
were crooks in the house bent upon stealing the famous Gordon jewels.
That it was Throckmorton who averted this catastrophe by sheer nerve and
by use of his rare histrionic powers--as when he disguised himself in
the coat and hat of the arch crook whom he had felled with a single blow
and left bound and gagged, in order to receive the casket of jewels from
the thief who opened the safe in the library, and that he laughed
away the thanks of the grateful millionaire, astonished no one in the
audience, though it caused Merton Gill to wonder if he could fell a
crook with one blow. He must practice up some blows.
Throckmorton left the palatial country home wearied by the continuous
adulation. The last to speed him was the Gordon daughter, who reminded
him of their wager; within ten days he would acknowledge her to be an
actress fit to play as his leading woman.
Throckmorton drove rapidly to a simple farm where he was not known and
would be no longer surfeited with attentions. He dressed plainly in
shirts that opened wide at the neck and assisted in the farm labours,
such as pitching hay and leading horses into the barn. It was the simple
existence that he had been craving--away from it all! No one suspected
him to be Hubert Throckmorton, least of all the simple country maiden,
daughter of the farmer, in her neat print dress and heavy braid of
golden hair that hung from beneath her sunbonnet. She knew him to be
only a man among men, a simple farm labourer, and Hubert Throckmorton,
wearied by the adulation of his feminine public, was instantly charmed
by her coy acceptance of his attentions.
That this charm should ripen to love was to be expected. Here was a
child, simple, innocent, of a wild-rose beauty in her print dress and
sunbonnet, who would love him for himself alone. Beside a blossoming
orange tree on the simple Long Island farm he declared his love, warning
the child that he had nothing to offer her but two strong arms and a
heart full of devotion.
The little girl shyly betrayed that she returned his love but told him
that he must first obtain the permission of her grandmother without
which she would never consent to wed him. She hastened into the old
farmhouse to prepare Grandmother for the interview.
Throckmorton presently faced the old lady who sat huddled in an
armchair, her hands crooked over a cane, a ruffled cap above her silvery
hair. He manfully voiced his request for the child’s hand in marriage.
The old lady seemed to mumble an assent. The happy lover looked about
for his fiance when, to his stupefaction, the old lady arose briskly
from her chair, threw off cap, silvery wig, gown of black, and stood
revealed as the child herself, smiling roguishly up at him from beneath
the sunbonnet. With a glad cry he would have seized her, when she stayed
him with lifted hand. Once more she astounded him. Swiftly she threw
off sunbonnet, blonde wig, print dress, and stood before him revealed as
none other than the Gordon daughter.
Hubert Throckmorton had lost his wager. Slowly, as the light of
recognition dawned in his widening eyes, he gathered the beautiful girl
into his arms. “Now may I be your leading lady?” she asked.
“My leading lady, not only in my next picture, but for life,” he
replied.
There was a pretty little scene in which the wager was paid. Merton
studied it. Twice again, that evening, he studied it. He was doubtful.
It would seem queer to take a girl around the waist that way and kiss
her so slowly. Maybe he could learn. And he knew he could already do
that widening of the eyes. He could probably do it as well as Parmalee
did.
* * * * * * *
Back in the Buckeye office, when the Montague girl had returned from her
parting with Merton, Baird had said:
“Kid, you’ve brightened my whole day.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“He’s a lot better than you said.”
“But can you use him?”
“You can’t tell. You can’t tell till you try him out. He might be good,
and he might blow up right at the start.”
“I bet he’ll be good. I tell you. Jeff, that boy is just full of acting.
All you got to do--keep his stuff straight, serious. He can’t help but
be funny that way.”
“We’ll see. To-morrow we’ll kind of feel him out. He’ll see this
Parmalee film to-day--I caught it last night--and there’s some stuff
in it I want to play horse with, see? So I’ll start him to-morrow in
a quiet scene, and find out does he handle. If he does, we’ll go right
into some hokum drama stuff. The more serious he plays it the better. It
ought to be good, but you can’t ever tell in our trade. You know that as
well as I do.”
The girl was confident. “I can tell about this lad,” she insisted.