Since the night Mrs. Gallant had gone weeping to her room after John
told her that Consuello played in motion pictures, the girl had never
been mentioned by either of them. John refrained from speaking of her
because he decided that until he found some way to overcome the
prejudice his mother held it would only cause unpleasantness. There had
never been a night following that when Mrs. Gallant had displayed her
disapproval of Consuello that John had not racked his brain to decide
how he could eradicate his mother's intolerant attitude and bring her to
know and appreciate Consuello for the girl she was.
At times he was annoyed by his mother's bigotry which gave her, in
Consuello's case, an unreasonableness that amounted almost to fanaticism
and embittered the natural sweetness of her character and disposition.
His suspicion that her condemnation of photoplays and everyone connected
with them was being fostered by someone else had been substantiated by
an incident which occurred shortly after the night she had turned her
back on Consuello.
That Mrs. Sprockett, "from across the street"--as John always thought
of her--had interrupted one of the evening chats he always had with his
mother. His impulsive dislike of Mrs. Sprockett caused him to leave her
alone on the porch with his mother while he retired to the living room
to read. The window to the porch was open.
"Isn't it terrible?" he heard Mrs. Sprockett say. "They tell me that she
had been married three times and smokes cigarettes right in front of
everyone. Women like her are a disgrace to a nation and we mothers
should do something, I tell you."
From further snatches of the conversation John learned that Mrs.
Sprockett was referring to a motion picture actress who had been given a
decree of divorce that day.
"I told my Alma at dinner, tonight, that she had better not let me catch
her sneaking off to the picture show," Mrs. Sprockett continued. Alma,
John knew, was the oldest of Mrs. Sprockett's daughters. "What are
things coming to when girls wear their skirts above their knees and bob
their hair and think nothing of taking up with the first man they meet?
When you and I were girls, Mrs. Gallant, we would have been locked up if
we had attempted such performances.
"I tell you we owe it to our children to crush these creatures that set
such wicked examples. And Mr. Sprockett agrees with me in every word I
say."
As far as John knew, Mrs. Sprockett's husband had never, never disagreed
with her--for good and sufficient reasons. He had recalled how Mrs.
Sprockett's husband trailed her from house to house in the neighborhood
evenings while the Sprockett baby wailed for attention.
He drew Consuello's note from his pocket while he and his mother were in
the living room after dinner and read it again. He debated in his mind
what he should do and finally handed it to his mother without a word.
Mrs. Gallant adjusted her spectacles and read the note through slowly.
John studied her face and he imagined he saw her lips tremble slightly.
She evaded meeting his eyes as she handed the note back to him. He
waited for her to speak, but she was silent and he realized with a
sinking feeling that her attitude toward Consuello had not changed. He
determined, however, to dispose of the matter quickly.
"Well, mother," he said. "How shall I answer her?"
"It was very kind of her to include me but under the circumstances,
John, I----"
"Very well, mother."
"But, my boy----"
"Yes."
"Don't let me stop you from going and please don't let it harden your
heart against me."
"Mother, are you sure you're not making a sad mistake in letting your
heart harden against her?" he could not resist saying.
Her lips trembled and her handkerchief went to her eyes. Leaving his
chair he crossed to where she was sitting and put his arm around her.
"There, mother, we must not let anything come between us," he said,
tenderly. "It's all right, mother; it's all right!"
The next day, Saturday, he telephoned to Consuello early in the morning,
soon after he reached the office, in order to catch her before she left
for the studio.
"I was just about to call you," she said. "Did you get my note?"
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry, but it will be impossible for me to get home, tomorrow.
My director insists that we go out on location in the morning. You
understand, don't you?"
"Certainly," he replied. He had decided to tell her that his mother was
ill and unable to accept her invitation. His relief was beyond words
when he discovered that it would be unnecessary for him to fabricate an
excuse for Mrs. Gallant, although he realized it was only postponing
the time when he should be compelled to prevent Consuello learning of
his mother's harsh judgment of her.
"I was so anxious that we should have a perfect day together, your
mother, yourself, father and mother and I. But we can arrange it for
some other time, can't we?"
"I'm sure we can." He felt justified somehow in taking this optimistic
view.
"And I wanted to ask you, would you care to come out with us on
location, tomorrow? We have several scenes to do and I'm sure you will
find it interesting."
"It would be wonderful."
"If you can be at the studio at nine?"
"I'll be there."
"And you'll explain how it is to your mother and tell her how sorry I
am, won't you?"
"She'll understand." He felt he was not trifling as much with truth in
that answer.
Carrying out a conclusion he reached during the day, John did not tell
his mother of his conversation over the telephone with Consuello. He
told her only that he would be away most of Sunday, permitting her to
deduce that he had accepted Consuello's invitation and had made some
explanation of her absence.
A dozen automobiles were in line along the driveway of the Peerless
studio when John arrived promptly at nine o'clock, the following
morning. Consuello had evidently told the guard at the gate that she was
expecting him. It was only necessary for him to mention his name.
"Miss Carrillo asks that you be directed to her dressing room," the
gateman said.
With one exception the automobiles were already occupied. John
recognized the cameramen with their equipment piled in one of the cars.
In another he discerned his guide, "John J. Silence," and in another he
caught a glimpse of the sad-eyed bass 'cello player, his huge instrument
beside him.
As he left the driveway to cross to the dressing room building he saw
Consuello coming toward him. She wore the dainty white "old fashioned"
dress, as John had named it in his mind, that she had when they first
met at the Barton Randolph lawn fete. She was Consuello and yet because
of her facial "make-up," she was the girl he had seen before the camera
on the occasion of his first visit to the studio.
"They're waiting for me," she explained as John met her. "You'll ride
with us."
She led him to the first automobile in the line. In the front seat,
beside the driver, was the man with the horn-rim glasses whom John
recognized as her director. They took seats in the tonneau and he shook
hands with the director whom Consuello introduced as "Mr. Bonwit."
Heading the caravan of machines their car started out of the driveway.
"I wanted Reggie--Mr. Gibson--to come with us," she explained, "but he
had other engagements, something to do with his work, and could not get
away. He promised to join us later. I am anxious to hear what he has
been doing and what you think of it. I know all about his raid on those
places in Spring street."
His part in the raid with the suspicion it directed against Gibson as an
ally of "Gink" Cummings returned to him. Principally because of the
faith Consuello had in Gibson he had been unable to convince himself
that the commissioner was in league with Cummings, despite the arguments
advanced by Brennan and the attitude taken by the publisher of his
newspaper, a view that did not reject the possibility that Gibson was a
masquerader.
"He told me that what you said about newspaper men wondering why he did
not attack 'Gink' Cummings caused him to decide to make the raid," she
went on. "You may not believe it, but he respects your judgment and has
a great deal of admiration for you and the man who works with you,
Brennan, isn't it?"
Passing the outskirts of the city the machines took them through a
district being built up with pretty little bungalows of varied colors
and architecture.
"I often wonder," she said, "whether the people who live in these houses
ever realize what Mr. Gibson is trying to do for them. They seem so
apart from the hurry and scurry of life; they see so little of the evil
he is trying to save them from. They read of him, perhaps, and commend
him in their minds for what he is doing and let it go at that. I don't
suppose they ever feel they owe him a personal debt of gratitude."
"It is a common fault to hold aloof and think little of danger until it
strikes home to you," John said. "And yet I envy them for what they do
not know, for what they do not see, for their self-content."
Leaving the city behind, the automobile swung on to a boulevard leading
toward the hills. She explained to him the purpose of their trip.
"It is what we call a 'retake,'" she said. "The scenes we will do today
were done several weeks ago, but the photography did not satisfy Mr.
Bonwit. We will do them over again, resurrecting the sweetheart you saw
me mourning so sadly for back on the interior set. They are the scenes
in which he asks me to marry him and in which I plight my troth, as the
title writer insists upon describing it."
"Perhaps that's why Mr. Gibson isn't with us," suggested John.
"It may be," she laughed. "He saw the original scenes played and
pretended to be madly jealous of the leading man."
The "location" on which the cameras were trained for the scenes enacted
by Consuello was idealistic as an outdoor setting. Shasta daisies,
primroses and stalks of purple and white larkspur, in riotous profusion,
gave splotches of bright color that stood out vividly against the bosky
green. Stately, restful trees gave bounteous shade. A brook, tumbling
down the hillside, gurgled over clean, white stones and sand.
There was a lengthy conference between the photographers and Bonwit, the
director, relative to the light effects. Oblongs of white cloth tacked
on a wood framework, which John learned were used to reflect and deflect
the sun's rays, were shifted from one spot to another and back again
until the camera men were completely satisfied.
The sad-eyed bass viol player with his companions, the violinist and
the 'cellist, occupied folding chairs several yards to the right of the
cameras, where they were protected from the sun in the shade of a tree.
"John J. Silence," whom John discovered was an assistant director, made
countless trips to and from the automobiles for things that everyone
seemed to have forgotten and left in the machines.
John had never seen such precaution exercised. It was fully an hour
before Consuello and her sweetheart in the photoplay began rehearsing.
He was a young fellow, with smooth black hair that John considered
almost as perfect as that of Gibson, which had irritated him when he
first met the police commissioner. And, as John had also thought of
Gibson, the actor playing opposite Consuello was too immaculate.
First, Consuello and the actor came slowly toward the cameras, hand in
hand, a typical pair of straying lovers, so affected by each other's
presence that they spoke only with their eyes, sidelong glances of
ardent devotion. Then they stood still, facing each other, their
profiles toward the cameras, he holding her hands down to her sides,
telling her of his love for her while she hung her head. As he finished
she lifted her face, smiled, and he clasped her to his breast, looking
up as if he was thanking his Creator for giving her to him.
They held that pose for what John thought was an unnecessarily long
time, and that was all of the first scene. John was happy to note, for a
reason he neglected to define, even to himself, that Consuello seemed
relieved as she drew back from the actor's arms. They rehearsed it a
dozen times before Bonwit and the cameramen decided it could be done no
better and then the cameras clicked.
Next there was a pretty little scene, without much action, in which
Consuello and her "sweetheart" were seated beside each other with a
background of flowers. John deduced that obstacles had evidently risen
to the marriage, as the "conversation" was serious and inclined to be
tearful. During this scene the three-piece orchestra, by this time
coatless and collarless, played the most plaintively sad piece, John
thought, that he had ever heard. The bass viol player's face was almost
funereal as he gazed abstractedly up into the branches of the tree above
him. The scene ended with the actor looking soulfully into the eyes of
his betrothed.
When scene number two had been photographed, "John J. Silence" amazed
John by suddenly shouting "Eats!" and dashing toward the automobiles. A
large wicker hamper was lifted from one of the cars and carried to a
clear space near the cameras. Consuello seated herself in a canvas chair
near John, who sat cross-legged at her feet. They were apart from the
others, who formed a group under another tree. From the hamper "John J.
Silence" brought them two small baskets, covered with snow-white
napkins, containing sandwiches, a piece of pie, a slice of cake, ripe
olives, salted almonds and paper cups, which, at Consuello's suggestion,
John filled with water from the stream.
"I don't blame him," remarked John as they settled down to enjoy the
basket luncheon.
"Who?"
"Gibson," he said.
"For what?"
"For hating that make-believe sweetheart of yours," he answered.
"But he is only--only as you said--make-believe," she said. "He has the
sweetest little wife and two of the darlingest children you ever saw. He
probably is thinking of them while he's holding me in his arms and
pledging undying love. Whenever he has to shed tears he thinks of the
time the baby had pneumonia and nearly died."
"Make-believe," he repeated. "My friend Brennan--whom Gibson spoke to
you of--says that life is all make-believe; that we all play at
make-believe--some of us rightfully, but most of us wrongfully."
Subconsciously he thought of Brennan's indictment of Gibson as a fraud
and a dishonest "make-believe," a consummate actor in the role of a
villain in real life.
"I'm often inclined to believe it," she said slowly. "Perhaps that's why
life is sometimes a huge joke and sometimes nothing but sadness and
disillusionment. We play our little game of make-believe and strut
around proudly, making ourselves, as well as others, think that we
amount to something and then comes death, like a curtain; the footlights
go out and where are we? Who thinks of us then?"
"Only the few who have loved us with all our faults and vain deceit and
make-believe," he replied.
A series of "close-ups," were photographed after lunch. Consuello went
into the actor's embrace again to permit a "close-up" of his fervent
expression of love and thankfulness as he looked upward to the sky. John
didn't mind the repetition of this scene. He thought of the actor's wife
and two babies, especially the one who was his father's "tear provoker."
There was another in which Consuello, her head inclined, admired the
fresh crisp beauty of a bouquet of daisies. She lifted her face to gaze
with a faraway look past the cameras, apparently registering longing for
her absent sweetheart. John followed her gaze and discovered it was
fixed on the woebegone countenance of the bass viol player, whose
melancholy seemed to be increased by his dim realization that he was the
object on which she concentrated in her abstract mood.
In a third "close-up" the actor registered the deepness of his love by
thrusting his chin forward and staring unblinkingly over John's head. It
was an effective piece of facial expression, John thought, as the
actor's eyes were as soft as a fawn's. Photographs of Richard
Barthelmess and John Barrymore in similar poses came back into John's
mind.
John and Consuello were beside each other again on the return trip to
the studio.
"I expect Reggie will be there waiting for us," she said. "We have a
dinner engagement and I will have to dress at the studio. I'm sorry that
he and you and I cannot have dinner together, we have so much to talk
about."
"You have been kind enough," he said. "I have enjoyed myself thoroughly
and I would be intruding if I occupied any more of your time."
"Intruding?" she repeated, with a rising inflection of her voice. "Why,
it was kind of you to be with me."
"But you must remember--" he began.
"Remember?"
"Yes, remember there is someone else who should be considered."
"Oh, Reggie's glad that he has a substitute for trips like this and I've
told you that he respects your judgment," she said.
Gibson was in his two-seated car at the entrance to the studio when they
arrived. They left their machines at the gateway to meet him.
"Again?" he asked as they met. "You two certainly find each other
interesting."
He smiled as he spoke, but a queer feeling went through John as he
realized that Consuello had failed to tell Gibson that she had invited
him to be with her.
"I'm acquainting Mr. Gallant with the process of picture making,"
Consuello said. However she received Gibson's salutatory remark she gave
no hint of her feeling in the tone of her voice.
"When are you going to show her through a newspaper office, Gallant?"
Gibson was still smiling. Consuello replied before John could speak.
"Whenever you and I can find time, I'm sure," she said. "You'll excuse
me for a moment; I must hurry along so I won't keep you waiting long,
Reggie. And Mr. Gallant, I'll arrange for a car to take you home."
She hurried away, skipping toward the dressing room building.
Unconscious of each other, Gibson and Gallant watched her until she
disappeared from their sight. When they turned toward each other
simultaneously, John had a peculiarly embarrassed feeling, as if he had
been caught doing something which he had no right to do.
Gibson's smile was confusing.
"A wonderful, wonderful girl," he said, drawing a finely embossed
cigarette case.
"Yes," said John, instinctively apprehensive of making a more
enthusiastic concurrence.
"A whole-hearted, dear, unsuspecting girl," said Gibson, without
offering the cigarette case to John.
"Yes."
"A girl who makes a friend of everyone she meets."
Wasn't that "everyone" emphasized a trifle?
"A girl a man would do almost anything for." He was still smiling.
"Yes."
"By the way, Gallant, has she told you we are engaged to be married?"
John hesitated and chose to keep the confidence she had placed in him.
"No," he said. "You ARE to be congratulated." He had a secret
satisfaction in stressing the "are."
Gibson lighted his cigarette.
"I just thought I'd tell you," he said and John thought--or was it his
imagination?--that Gibson's set smile flattened a little at the corners.