WITH ROSALIND IN ARDEN
Of course it is understood that every graduating class rightfully
asserts, and is backed up in its belief by doting and nobly partisan
relatives and blindly devoted, hyperbolic friends, that _its_ particular,
unique and proper senior dramatics is the most glorious and unforgettable
performance in all the histrionic annals of the college, a thing to make
Will Shakespeare himself rise and applaud from his high and far off hills
of Paradise.
Certainly Tony's class knew, past any qualms of doubt, and made no bones
of proclaiming its conviction that there never had been such a wonderful
"As You Like It" and that never, so long as the stars kept their seats in
the heavens and senior classes produced Shakespeare--two practically
synonymous conditions--would there ever be such another Rosalind as Tony
Holiday, so fresh, so spontaneous, so happy in her acting, so
bewitchingly winsome to behold, so boyish, yet so exquisitely feminine in
her doublet and hose, so daring, so dainty, so full of wit and grace and
sparkle, so tender, so merry, so natural, so all-in-all and utterly as
Will himself would have liked his "right Rosalind" to be.
So the class maintained and so they chanted soon and late, in many keys,
"with a hey and a ho and a hey nonino." And who so bold or malicious, or
age cankered as to dispute the dictum? Is it not youth's privilege to
fling enthusiasm and superlatives to the wind and to deal in glorious
arrogance?
It must be admitted, however, in due justice, that the class that played
"As You Like It" that year had some grounds on which to base its
pretensions and vain-glory. For had not a great stage manager been
present and applauded until his palms were purple and perspiration
beaded his beak of a nose? Had he not, as the last curtain, descended,
blown his nose, mopped his brow, exclaimed "God bless my soul!" three
times in succession and demanded to be shown without delay into the
presence of Rosalind?
As we know already, the great stage manager had not come over-willingly
or over-hopefully to Northampton to see Tony Holiday play Rosalind.
Indeed, when it had been first suggested that he do so, he had objected
violently and remarked with conviction that he would "be
da--er--_blessed_ if he would." But he had come and he had been blessed
involuntarily.
For he had seen something he had not expected to see--a real play, with
real magic to it, such magic as all his cunning stage artifice, all the
studied artistry of his fearfully and wonderfully salaried stellar
attachments somehow missed achieving. He tried afterwards to explain to
Carol Clay, his favorite star, just what the quality of the magic was,
but somehow he could not get it into words. It wasn't exactly wordable
perhaps. It was something that rendered negligible the occasionally
creaking mechanism and crudeness of stage business and rendition;
something compounded of dew and sun and wind, such as could only be found
in a veritable Forest of Arden; something elusive, exquisite, iridescent;
something he had supposed had vanished from the world about the time they
put Pan out of business and stopped up the Pipes of Arcady. It was
enchanting, elemental, genuine Elizabethan, had the spirit of Master
Skylark himself in it. Maybe it was the spirit of youth itself, immortal
youth, playing immortal youth's supreme play? Who knows or can lay finger
upon the secret of the magic? The great stage manager did not and could
not. He only knew that, in spite of himself, he had drunk deep for a
moment of true elixir.
But as for Rosalind herself that was another matter. Max Hempel was
entirely capable of analyzing his impressions there and correlating them
with the cold hard business on which he had come. Even if the play had
proved a greater bore than he had anticipated, the trip from Broadway to
the Academy of Music would still have been materially worth while.
Antoinette Holiday was a genuine find, authentic star stuff. They hadn't
spoiled her, plastered her over with meaningless mannerisms. She was
virgin material--untrained, with worlds to learn, of course; but with a
spark of the true fire in her--her mother's own daughter, which was the
most promising thing anybody could say of her.
No wonder Max Hempel had peremptorily demanded to be shown behind the
scenes without an instant's delay. He was almost in a panic lest some
other manager should likewise have gotten wind of this Rosalind and be
lurking in the wings even now to pounce upon his own legitimate prey. He
couldn't quite forget either the tall young man of the afternoon's
encounter, his seatmate up from Springfield. He wasn't exactly afraid,
however, having seen the girl and watched her live Rosalind. The child
had wings and would want to fly far and free with them, unless he was
mightily mistaken in his reading of her.
Tony was still resplendent in her wedding white, and with her arms full
of roses, when she obeyed the summons to the stage door on being told
that the great manager wished to see her. She came toward him, flushed,
excited, adorably pretty. She laid down her roses and held out her hand,
shy, but perfectly self-possessed.
"'Well, this is the Forest of Arden,'" she quoted. "It must be or else I
am dreaming. As long as I can remember I have wanted to meet you, and
here you are, right on the edge of the forest."
He bowed low over her hand and raised it gallantly to his lips.
"I rather think I am still in Arden myself," he said. "My dear, you have
given me a treat such as I never expected to enjoy again in this world.
You made me forget I knew anything about plays or was seeing one. You
carried me off with you to Arden."
"Did you really like the play?" begged Tony, shining-eyed at the praise
of the great man.
"I liked it amazingly and I liked your playing even more amazingly. Is it
true that you are going on the stage?" He had dropped Arden now, gotten
down to what he would have called brass tacks. The difference was in his
voice. Tony sensed it vaguely and was suddenly a little frightened.
"Why, I--I don't know," she faltered. "I hope so. Sometime."
"Sometime is never," he snapped. "That won't do."
The Arden magic was quite gone by this time. He was scowling a little and
thrust out his upper lip in a way Tony did not care for at all. It
occurred to her inconsequentially that he looked a good deal like the
wolf, in the story, who threatened to "huff and puff" until he blew in
the house of the little pigs. She didn't want her house blown in. She
wished Uncle Phil would come. She stooped to gather up her roses as if
they might serve as a barricade between her and the wolf. But suddenly
she forgot her misgivings again, for Max Hempel was saying incredible
things, things which set her imagination agog and her pulses leaping. He
was offering her a small role, a maid's part, in one of his road
companies.
"Me!" she gasped from behind her roses.
"You."
"When?"
"To-morrow--the day after--next week at the latest. Chances like that
don't go begging long, young lady. Will you take it?"
"Oh, I wish I could!" sighed Tony. "But I am afraid I can't. Oh, there is
Uncle Phil!" she interrupted herself to exclaim with perceptible relief.
In a moment Doctor Holiday was with them, his arm around Tony while he
acknowledged the introduction to the stage manager, who eyed him somewhat
uncordially. The two men took each the other's measure. Possibly a spark
of antagonism flashed between them for an instant. Each wanted the lovely
little Rosalind on his own side of the fence, and each suspected the
other of desiring to lure her to the other side if he could. For the
moment however, the advantage was all with the doctor, with his
protecting arm around Tony.
"Holiday!" muttered Hempel. "There was a Holiday once who married one of
the finest actresses of the American stage--carried her off to nurse his
babies. I never forgave that man. He was a brute."
Tony stiffened. Her eyes flashed. She drew away from her uncle and
confronted the stage manager angrily.
"He wasn't a brute, if you mean my father!" she burst out. "My mother was
Laura LaRue."
"I know it," grinned the manager, thoroughly delighted to have struck
fire. The girl was better even than he had thought. She was magnificent,
angry. "That's why I'm here," he added. "I just offered this young person
a part in a practically all-star cast, touring the West. Do you mind?" he
challenged Doctor Holiday.
"I should mind her accepting," said the other man tranquilly. "As it is,
I am duly appreciative of the offer. Thank you."
"What if I told you she had accepted?" the wolf snapped.
Tony saw the swift shadow cloud her uncle's face and hated the manager
for hurting him like that.
"I didn't," she protested indignantly. "You know I wouldn't promise
anything without talking to you, Uncle Phil. I told him I couldn't go."
"But you wanted to," persisted the wolf, bound to get his fangs in
somewhere.
Tony smiled a little wistfully.
"I wanted to most awfully," she confessed, patting her uncle's arm to
take the sting out of her admission. "Will you ask me again some day?"
she appealed to the manager.
He snorted at that.
"You'll come asking me, young lady, and before long, too. Laura LaRue's
daughter isn't going to settle down to being either a butterfly or a
blue-stocking. You are going on the stage and you know it. No use,
Holiday. You won't be able to hold her back. It's in the blood. You may
be able to dam the tide for a time, but not forever."
"I don't intend to dam it," said the doctor gravely. "If, when the time
comes, Tony wishes to go on the stage, I shall not try to prevent her. In
fact I shall help her in every way in my power."
"Uncle Phil!" Tony's voice had a tiny catch in it. She knew her
grandmother would be bitterly opposed to her going on the stage, and had
imagined she would have to win even her uncle over by slow degrees to the
gratifying of this desire of her heart. It had hurt her even to think of
hurting him or going against him in any way--he who was, "father and
mother and a'" to her. Dear Uncle Phil! How he always understood and took
the big, broad viewpoint!
The manager grunted approval at that. His belligerency waned.
"Congratulate you, sir. That's spoken like a man of sense. Evidently you
are able to see over the wall farther than most of the witch-ridden New
Englanders I've met. I should like the chance to launch this Rosalind of
yours. But don't make it too far off. Youth is the biggest drawing card
in the world and--the most transient. You have to get in the game early
to get away with it. I'll start her whenever you say--next week--next
month--next year. Guarantee to have her ready to understudy a star in
three months and perhaps a star herself in six. She might jump into the
heavens overnight. Stranger things have happened. What do you say? May I
have an option on the young lady?"
"That is rather too big a question to settle off hand at midnight. Tony
is barely twenty-two and she has home obligations which will have to be
considered. Her grandmother is old and frail and--a New Englander of the
old school."
"Too bad," commiserated the manager. "But never mind all that. All I ask
is that you won't let her sign up with anybody else without giving me a
chance first."
"I think we may safely promise that and thank you. Tony and I both
appreciate that you are doing her a good deal of honor for one small
school girl, eh Tony?" The doctor smiled down at his flushed, starry-eyed
niece. He understood precisely what a big moment it was for her.
"Oh, I should think so!" sighed Tony. "You are awfully kind, Mr. Hempel.
It is like a wonderful dream--almost too good to be true."
Both men smiled at that. For youth no dream is quite too extravagant or
incredible to be potentially true. No grim specters of failure and
disillusionment and frustration dog its bright path. All possibilities
are its divine inheritance.
"Mr. Hempel, did you know my mother?" Tony asked suddenly, with a shadow
of wistfulness in her dark eyes. There were so few people whom she met
that had known her mother. It was as if Laura LaRue had moved in a
different orbit from that of her daughter. It always hurt Tony to feel
that. But here was one who was of her mother's own world. No wonder her
eyes were beseeching as they sought the great manager's.
He bowed gravely.
"I knew her very well. She was one of the most beautiful women I have
ever seen--and one of the greatest actresses. Your father was a lucky
man, my dear. Few women would have given up for any man what she gave
up for him."
"Oh, but--she loved him," explained Laura LaRue's daughter simply.
Again Hempel nodded.
"She did," he admitted grimly. After all these years there was no use
admitting that that had been the deepest rub of all, that Laura had loved
Ned Holiday and had never, for even the span of a moment, thought of
caring for himself. "I repeat, your father was a very lucky man--a
damnably lucky one."
And with that they shook hands and parted.
It was many months before Tony was to see Max Hempel again and many
waters were to run under the bridge before the meeting came to pass.
Outside in the car, Ted, Dick and the twins waited the arrival of the
heroine of the evening. The three latter greeted her with a burst of
prideful congratulation; the former, being merely a brother, was
distinctly cross at having been kept waiting so long and did not hesitate
to express his sentiments fully out loud. But Doctor Holiday cut short
his nephew's somewhat ungracious speech by a quiet reminder that the car
was here primarily for Tony's use, and the boy subsided, having no more
to say until, having deposited the occupants of the car at their various
destinations, he announced to his uncle with elaborate carelessness that
he would take the car around to the garage.
But he did not turn in at the side street where the garage was. Instead
he shot out Elm Street, "hitting her up" at forty. There had been a
reason for his impatience. Ted Holiday had important private business to
transact ere cock crow.
Tony lay awake a long time that night, dreaming dreams that carried her
far and far into the future, until Rosalind's happy triumph of the
evening almost faded away in the glory of the yet-to-be. It was
characteristic of the girl's stage of development that in all her dreams,
no lovers, much less a possible husband, ever once entered. Tony Holiday
was in love with life and life alone that wonderful June night. As Hempel
had shrewdly perceived she was conscious of having wings and desirous of
flying far and free with them ere she came to pause.
She did remember, in passing however, how she had caught Dick's eyes
once as he sat in the box near the stage, and how his rapt gaze had
thrilled her to intenser playing of her part. And she remembered how
dear he was afterward in the car when he held her roses and told her
softly what a wonderful, wonderful Rosalind she was. But, on the whole,
Dick, like most of the rest of the people with whom she had held
converse since the curtain went down upon Arden, seemed unimportant and
indistinct, like courtiers and foresters, not specifically named among
the _dramatis personae_, just put in to fill out and make a more
effective stage setting.
Dick, too, in his room on Greene Street, was wakeful. He sat by the
window far into the night. His heart was heavy within him. The gulf
between him and Tony had suddenly widened immeasureably. She was a real
actress. He hadn't needed a great manager's verdict to teach him that. He
had seen it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears, felt it with
his own heart. He had worshiped and adored and been made unutterably sad
and lonely by her dazzling success, glad as he was that it had come to
her. Tony would go on in her shining path. He would always lag behind in
the shadows. They would never come together as long as they both lived.
She had started too far ahead. He could never overtake her.
If only there were some way of finding out who he was, get some clue as
to his parentage. He only knew that the man they called Jim, who had
kicked and beaten and sworn at him with foul oaths until he could bear it
no longer, was no kin of his, though the other had claimed the authority
to abuse him as he abused his horses and dogs when drink and ugliness
were upon him. If only he could find Jim again after all these years,
perhaps he could manage to get the truth out of him, find out what the
man knew of himself, and how he had come to be in a circus troupe. Yet
after all, perhaps it was better not to know. The facts might separate
him from Tony even more than he was separated by his ignorance of them.
As it was, he started even, with neither honor nor shame bequeathed him
from the past. What he was, he was in himself. And if by any miracle of
fortune Tony ever did come to care for him it would be just himself,
plain Dick, that she would love. He knew that.
The thought was vaguely comforting and he, too, fell adreaming. Most of
us foiled humans learn to play the game of make-believe and to find such
consolation as we may therein. Often and often in his lonely hours Dick
Carson had summoned Tony Holiday to his side, a Tony as bright and
beautiful and all adorable as the real Tony, but a dream Tony, withal, a
Tony who loved him even as he loved her. And in his make-believe he was
no longer a nameless, impecunious cub reporter, but a man who had arrived
somewhere, made himself worthy, so far as any mere man could, of the
supreme gift of Tony's caring.
To-night, too, Dick played the game determinedly, but somehow he found
its consolation rather meager, as cold and remote as the sparkle of the
June stars, millions of miles away up there in the velvet sky, after
having sat by the side of the living, breathing Tony and, looking into
her happy eyes, known how little, how very little, he was in her
thoughts. She liked him to be near her, he knew, just as she liked her
roses to be fragrant, but neither the roses nor himself was a vital
necessity to her. She could do very well without either. That was the
pity of it.
At last he got up and went to bed. Falling into troubled sleep he dreamed
that he and Tony were wandering, hand in hand, in the Forest of Arden.
From afar off came the sound of music, airy voices chanting:
"When birds do sing, hey ding a ding
Sweet lovers love the spring."
And then somebody laughed mockingly, like Jacques, and somebody else,
clad in motley like Touchstone, but who seemed to speak in Dick's own
voice, murmured, "Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I."
And even with these words the forest vanished and Tony with it and the
dreamer was left alone on a steep and dusty road, lost and aching for the
missing touch of her hand.
But later he woke to the song of a thousand birds greeting the new day
with full-throated joy. And his heart, too, began to sing. For it was
indeed a new day--a day in which he should see Tony. He was irrationally
content. Of such is the kingdom of lad's love!