Hilary Lloyd had had his doubts as to how serious a view Haxon might
take of his discovery of the moonshining enterprise that had contrived
to utilise to its own profit the presence here of the Street Fair.
With the return of the morning light and its renewal of courage and
hope the possible suspicion of a coalition of these interests seemed
to him more remote than heretofore. His own association with the
moonshiner's family might perhaps be most naturally interpreted as an
accident, a fortuitous circumstance, and the extreme publicity of the
appearance of the manager of the show both in the company of the girl
and the old grandam would be presumed to imply an unconsciousness,
an entire freedom from complicity on his part. All the morning, in
a sub-acute process of the mind, he had argued these premises, pro
and con. While he laboured to reassure the acrobat, to freshen his
nerve, to flatter his composure, to reinstate his pride, so grievously
cut down in the episode of the handbill, these mental exercises were
hardly pretermitted for a moment. When, however, the perilous feat
was once more safely performed and Haxon had been fed, and his nerves
recuperated, Lloyd, feeling that the moment for the absolutely
essential revelation had arrived and could no longer be postponed,
drew him aside and intimated that he had disclosures to make of an
importance that necessitated closed doors. Together they ascended the
stairs to the room they shared, and even there Lloyd looked out on the
balcony and down the cross-hall before he began his story.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Haxon irritably. "What's up? You scare me to death!
You're gone bug-house, that's what!"
Lloyd was altogether unprepared for the appalled horror that
overmastered the acrobat's every power of reasoning when the disclosure
was once made. It was as if the dungeons of the Federal prisons were
all agape for him, and he could not escape. For some time Lloyd
could only induce him to make an effort for composure by warning
him that his gasps, his half articulate exclamations like cries, so
shrill and sudden they were, his disordered, hasty strides about the
room--he actually fell in one of these, jarring the whole floor of the
house--would bring inquiry upon them and a surprise that, unexplained,
as it needs must be, would develop into suspicion, and this the
briefest investigation would lead to complete discovery of the facts
with their trail of false accusation.
Lloyd had expected co-operation and a division of the responsibility
of devising a plan of action. He had a fund of excellent common
sense. He realised that he was a man of most limited education, of an
experience curiously restricted, and he did not flatter himself that
he had any special native gifts of perspicacity and logic. He felt the
need of help and he had longed for this moment of liberation from the
solitary torment of his fears--for the sense of a comrade's support
and the mental attrition of a mind fresh to these weary problems. The
force with which he was flung back on his own resources stunned his
capacities for the time being. The revelation had only increased the
danger of immediate discovery in the absolute collapse of Haxon's
self-control. Lloyd used argument and persuasion, and finally resorted
to menacing warnings.
"You'll give the whole thing away to the authorities before we can have
a moment's counsel together and see what we can do."
"What can we do?" cried Haxon, his palms outspread dolorously. "We are
caught here like a rat in a trap--we can't get away. God! If I had
thirty-five dollars in the world I'd cut and run, and leave you to
shift for yourself."
Lloyd eyed him critically.
"Haxon, how can you show so much courage and nerve in that cursed high
dive of yours and be such a coward in a crisis like this?" he demanded
sternly.
"'Cause why? 'Cause the high dive is biz, but 'tain't my trade to defy
the Federal courts for offences I have never c'mitted."
He felt the aspersion on his courage--the lash cut his somewhat thick
sensibilities.
"Look here, Hil'ry----" He sat down astride on a chair, facing its
back and beating out on its wooden rim the several points as he made
them. "If I was in the illicit distilling lay I'd be fixed for the biz,
and I'd take my risks along with the profits as cool as I do in the
high dive. I'd be where I was known, too,--at home,--an' there'd be
some chanst of friends to back you, an' lawyers for hire, an' money at
hand--'t wouldn't be at the end of a blue fizzle on the road. But here
wheer I don't actually know so much as the name of the clerk of the
hotel! I haven't got a fiver to save my life!"
He turned the pockets of his trousers inside out to demonstrate his
impecuniosity, and his aspect as he sat thus, his round face pallid,
and his hair roached and standing straight in front, might have
suggested the ludicrous to another man, but to Hilary Lloyd it only
accented and illustrated the stress of the untoward situation.
"I couldn't get a nickel by telegraphing--even if I left the wire to be
paid at the other end, for I raised every cent I could scrape to start
the show out on the road; and you are in the same fix. An' here are you
an' I an' all the men in the company in this strange place, liable to
arrest and jail for aiding and abetting in the illicit sale of wild-cat
whisky--oh Lord!" His great full voice rose plangent on the air.
"I'll cut your tongue out if you lay it again to them words!" declared
Lloyd, in a frenzy of apprehension. He darted to the door and opening
it gazed down the cross-halls to detect a possible eavesdropper. He
then hastened to the window and looked out on the balcony. There was no
one near--no suggestion that suspicion had been aroused. He returned
to his chair, reassured, but tingling with the excitement of the
disastrous possibility and both angry and dismayed.
"What do you sit there, spouting all that preachment at me for? I know
it as well or better than you; didn't I find the thing out and tell you
how it stood? What do you suppose I did that for? To hear you spit it
all out again?"
"What did you do it for?" Haxon eyed him sullenly.
"To get your help--you are a partner in the biz; you had a right to
know."
Haxon looked as if he esteemed it a right with which he would willingly
have dispensed.
"You've got my nerve all tore up," he complained.
"That ain't the question--what are we goin' to do about it?"
Haxon, as he still sat facing the back of the chair, took the ends
of his pockets in the tips of his fingers and held them out to their
extreme limits.
"What can we do--_nothing_!"
Lloyd looked balked and despairing. He had hoped so much, waited so
long, with such torturing silence and self-repression for this appeal
for the help of his friend and partner. He gazed dubiously at the
attitude and face, all illustrative of the idea of absolute collapse,
and then he slowly and laboriously gathered himself together. He felt
like a pugilist, who, lunging with great force, has caught a heavy fall
in the ring. He was game, however, game to the last.
"Well, _I_ don't throw up the sponge," he said at length. "That's a
trick I've never learned. We can do something! You watch me right close
and keep a shut mouth, and sit tight, and you'll see something doing."
He nodded his head determinedly. Haxon, watching him doubtfully, could
experience no renewal of activity, no revival of hope. His faculties
were completely prostrated. He could only fear.
"Now, go slow," he said, irritably anxious.
"You be bound I will," Lloyd reassured him.
A dull curiosity began to grow in Haxon's eyes that yet winced from the
question.
"I have got a right to know. I'm a partner, and what you do will
implicate me."
"I've a good mind to roll you on the floor till you're as thin as a
sheet of paper," the athlete threatened, "only it's too good a stunt
without a crowd. You may bet your immortal soul that nothing _I_ do
will implicate you or any other man."
"I just wanted to warn you," said Haxon mildly.
"I was warned beforehand," Lloyd protested.
The mental activity, the canvass for expedients that Lloyd had sought
to rouse in Haxon's mind seemed now stimulated by the cessation of
urgency on the manager's part. A vague sense of being shut out of his
counsels was stirring uneasily in Haxon's consciousness--it put out a
clutch after the plans in which he would not share.
"Now you take care you don't make no mistake."
"Try not,--for my own sake,--but I'm not infallible," said Lloyd. His
interest in Haxon's impressions had evaporated. Since Haxon had neither
adequate aid nor well-considered advice to offer, and no fund of
courage to recruit and reanimate the flagging energies of his partner,
it did not matter how his vague conjecture skirmished about the point
of attack and plan of action.
"You be sure you don't get into a hole----" Haxon paused. "You ain't
thinking about giving the information to the authorities?" his small
keen eyes kindled with the contemplation of this course.
"Certainly not," said Lloyd listlessly. He had drawn off his cuffs that
had begun to wilt at the edges and was slipping the sleeve-links of
oxydised silver into a fresh pair that, leaning back in his chair, he
had reached from the tray of an open trunk.
"But you know the informer gets good pay. The government always pays
like smoke." Haxon, now that his speculations, his proffers of plans,
his advice were not solicited seemed bent on evolving and laying them
before his companion. "We might get enough that way to defray the cost
of the company's transportation to New York."
"We'd be much likelier to be laid by the heels for false arrest, for
we couldn't prove any illicit distilling or sale, either. Besides,
we'd get our heads shot off for playing the spy and informer; that's
etiquette in this region."
"You'd better think about that reward, now Hil'ry," the acrobat eagerly
urged. "_You_ ain't afraid of getting shot, nor nothing else. You're
holding back for another reason. There's a woman in the case!"
Lloyd looked up with a certain expectation and a deepening of the
roseate flush on his fair, girlish cheek.
"You don't want to inform on them folks on account of that gal. You've
gone and got mashed on a mountain singing-gal--the pals all say the
public don't fall to her racket not the least little bit."
"Oh," said Lloyd, as if with sudden comprehension--had he thought Haxon
was alluding to another woman here? He came visibly back, as from some
far digression of thought.
"There's no use talking about that, Hax. I've been all along there--in
fact, there ain't a by-path through this tangled torment that my mind
ain't travelled since the show opened up. The reward would be paid
for conviction, not for suspicion. No man gets paid for suspecting.
We couldn't wait till the moonshiners were arrested and convicted in
court--eat our heads off in that time, if anybody would credit us for
the grub-stakes."
Haxon's face fell, so strong a hold had his now unsought plans taken
upon him.
"Besides," Lloyd argued, rising from his chair, "our grounds of
suspicion ain't firm underfoot; even the authorities ain't sure enough
to venture to arrest the Pinnotts. They don't even molest the drunken
men that were fairly sprawling all over the town this morning. They'll
point the way they have travelled before long. The authorities are
waiting for bigger game--laying for the moonshiners."
The terrors of the situation seized Haxon again: The suspicion that
the street fair had at least some knowledge of this popular adjunct to
its attractions; the obvious fact that it must profit immeasurably by
the lures offered a dry town to draw a crowd; the unlucky publicity
of the intimacy that the manager of the show had struck up with the
old moonshiner and the several members of his family; the incongruity
that his daughter had become a temporary member of the company, and
had a place on the daily programme, doing a "stunt" that had no value
whatever in the public eye, and might thus seem a tribute of flattery
to a powerful coadjutor; the certainty that without this recruiting
of the moonshine whisky-drinking element in the scantily populated
region the fair could hardly have lived through the first day's
performance--all were close meshes in such a net that the acrobat could
hardly hope to escape thence.
"Oh, Hil'ry--we have worked so hard. I don't see no sense nor justice
in our gettin' tangled up this fashion." He bowed his head on the chair
back and groaned aloud.
"Now you look here," said Lloyd--he summoned a mental attention and
was not disconcerted when Haxon did not lift his head. "You listen to
me. I'm going to see this thing through. You just keep your tongue
between your teeth and don't bat your eye, and watch me, and you'll see
something doing!"
His confidence revived Haxon's hopes, though he retained his despondent
attitude after he heard the tread of Lloyd's feet slowly descending the
stairs. Perhaps it was well for the preservation of his composure that
he did not see the deep depression the manager's face expressed while
in the solitary transit down the flight, nor hear the half-smothered
groan that dropped from his lips. He had wasted much time for naught
in hanging his hopes on this futile interview. He was now exactly at
the point whence he had started. Time meant money--the increase of
the expenses of the show in a ratio with which the gate receipts by
no means kept pace. Time meant danger, the continual challenge of
disastrous possibilities, and that these were formulating somewhere,
somehow, he did not doubt for a moment. He paused when he reached
the bottom of the flight and glanced through a window of a side
hall that had an outlook in the direction of the sylvan nook where
Shadrach Pinnott had planted his staff. He had a vague, indeterminate
disposition to make a tour of discovery thither, to satisfy himself--to
see, perchance--wild hope--if his suspicions were not merely the result
of his over-anxious facile fears. All the world knows that dry towns
are only dry in spots, and perhaps the fact that the populace had
been so called into the streets by the presence of the show made the
pervasive evidences of liquor more obvious. Alack, his first glance
from the window proved the tenuity of this reasoning. The farthest man
he could see along the street coming from that direction was wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand; then amidst a file of ordinary
pedestrians two came affectionately clasping each other around the
waist, under the firm conviction that four legs can better compass
locomotion than two, when all are so unsteady, on the theory of
strength in numbers, perhaps. No one took notice, apparently, of the
aberrations of this method of progression, but he reflected it would
be only the gratification of a morbid anxiety to visit the spot, and
his presence there might add an element of curiosity and speculation
to a circumstance already unduly suspicious. As he came out into the
square he noticed with a sort of melancholy satisfaction how well the
show was running in all its various departments, how orderly it was,
how mindful of its best possibilities, how cheerful and brisk the
performers and spielers, all unprescient, poor souls! It was like a
well-oiled piece of machinery, automatic, scarcely needing the eye of
the manager. He cast a glance upward at the town clock--it was already
time for the afternoon concert; at that moment he heard the tuning of
the violins and a booming note from the bassoon. As he entered the
tent he remarked that the light within was tempered, mellow, and his
artistic taste was refreshed by this--it would aid the effect of the
lime-light on the stage which should simulate sunshine amongst the
dappling shadows of the peach-tree leaves.
The audience crowded the tent, to his surprise, for this "stunt" had
proved no favourite performance with the public, and, since already
seen, it had no claims to novelty. Then he realised the cause of this
accumulation of spectators; in the best seats in the centre of the
place was Mr. Jardine, his jaded, slightly disdainful, thin, grave,
thoughtful face easily discriminated among the many that seemed turned
out of a mould, custom made, so commonplace they were. The fresh,
bright, candid countenance of the young collegian was near at hand,
and between the two, radiant in their white dresses and hats, and
with their flower-like faces, exquisitely fair and dainty, looking
expectantly toward the stage, half amused at their own readiness to
be entertained with these slight trifles, were the two belated summer
birds of New Helvetia. The entrance of so distinguished a party had
already made the "high-class concert" the fashion; the best element of
the town was present, and this had been reinforced by the _profanum
vulgus_ of the street, for whatever the town folks found acceptable
the rural wight cautiously sampled, often decrying and ridiculing
while secretly approving and imitating. There were many sunbonnets,
and snuff-brushes, and big wool hats, and bushy beards, but the dapper
townsmen were in greater numbers than heretofore and the Misses
Laniston did not wear the only be-frilled millinery that the tent
displayed. It was an audience of no mean intelligence, and poor Lloyd
realised that were he free from the gnawing wild beasts of secret
anxiety and harrowing doubt and actual fear, his showman's heart would
have beat high with the determination to stretch every nerve and do his
best devoir. Even as it was there was no use in permitting the second
violin to enter upon the fugues of the little overture very distinctly
sharp to his acute and accurate ear. He had taken a seat near the
orchestra, and he suddenly stood up and signed with a wave of the hand
to catch the performer's attention. The man turned the screw slightly,
and twanged the string. While Hilary Lloyd stood, his head slightly
bent, with a face of motionless, intent interest, his hat in his hand,
he heard distinctly, besides the violin's keen vibration, the sudden
snap of the shutter of a camera. He nodded approval to the violinist,
but his eyes followed the camera's sound. Ruth's flower-like face
was pink with smiles and Lucia's long, romantic eyes were bright with
triumphant daring. The two cavaliers were distinctly disconcerted as
their eyes met Lloyd's. It was only for a moment; the manager affected
to look over the house, then turning, resumed his seat, and the
overture broke briskly forth.
"Lucia," her cousin Frank growled under cover of the music, "you had
better mind. You will be led out by the ear, if you don't look out."
"I should be delighted to have my ear distinguished in any way, here,
where a fine ear is made so conspicuous," she twittered in response.
"But the violins are all in accord now, and that second one _was_ out
of tune before," said Ruth.
"In printing the film I shall take special pains with so fine an ear,"
said Lucia.
"You can't fool me," gurgled Frank. "You snapped him because the fellow
looked so confoundedly handsome at the moment. You never dreamed that
the place was still enough for the click of the button to betray you.
There's nothing green in my eye!"
"You two must be a little more careful, if I may venture to say so,"
suggested Mr. Jardine, who really was somewhat aghast at the camera
episode--exceedingly discommoded by the grave eye of the manager and
nervous lest some neighbour might have noticed the incident. "Even in a
rustic community," he continued, "it won't do to take it for granted
that there are no people who know what--er--er----"
"Good manners are," suggested Lucia.
"I beg a thousand pardons--but I did not say that."
"Worse still, you implied it. You rejoice in being enigmatical."
Then she turned to Ruth. "Think of poor Mrs. Jardine (when he finds
her)--having to pick out his meaning from implications."
"The dear lady (when he finds her)--he will train her to deduce the
state of his affections from statistics."
Then they both collapsed behind their white fans, over which they
looked at each other with bright eyes, brimful of laughter. The
mythical Mrs. Jardine (when he should find her) was one of their
favourite subjects of retort when no reasonable justification was at
hand, and they spent much time in adjusting and readjusting her traits.
Oddly enough, for so sane and grave a man, this folly teased him, which
fact afforded them extreme delight.
They were incomprehensible to him in more ways than one, but
generally he gave this hardly a languid thought, ascribing it to the
idiosyncrasies of the feminine mind, which according to the popular
persuasion was adjusted to a peculiar poise. Now, however, he puzzled
over the theory of their conduct, which both nettled and embarrassed
him. In any metropolitan crowded centre, in any station of fashionable
society, he knew from experience that their graceful propriety of
demeanour, their air of delicate reserve, their instinct for the right
word at the right moment, the soft youthful dignity which they could
conserve, were matters for all admiration; he had relished greatly
being admitted behind this conventional formal pose into the intimacies
of familiar friendship where he saw them as they really were, in their
natural girlish relaxation from the conventions of general society.
But here was a new phase. They were recklessly conspicuous; they cared
naught for the opinions of the rustic crowd--indeed what they did and
said was likely to be presumed the fashion of the time and the fad of
the day. "I like to be where I know nobody, and where nobody knows
me," Lucia had declared, in reply to a covert admonition which he had
ventured; "I feel so easy. What is that story of a knight of old who
had a magic armour that protected him from sight, and he went through
the camps of his enemies all unsuspected. That is how I feel; I feel
invisible."
Mr. Jardine had not expected that they would adopt the Colbury
standards and sit demurely still, as if conscious, in this little
sphere, of the regards of all the world; that they would sparingly
converse in the lowest of tones and with solicitude for the effect of
their words. They could but be indifferent to criticism and maintain
a certain independence in so limited an environment. But it did seem
to him that they had reached the extreme of toleration in the episode
of the camera. Of course he realised that Lucia had never expected the
click of the instrument to acquaint the subject that she had sought
and caught his photograph, but in this contretemps she perceived only
an amazing jest at her own expense, of a delightful and unprecedented
savour. She almost perished with laughter and ridicule of herself and
seemed to have no care nor fear of the opinion of the man and this man
a stranger, of low station, of most questionable position, who might
take bitter offence, or venture some impertinence, or seek reprisal
in some wise intolerable to her and her friends. For his own part
Jardine was the same in every circumstance of life; formal, civil,
conventional, reserved. However the kaleidoscope of environment shifted
he did not change, and his standards were unalterable. He sought to
reflect that they were both very young; they were like birds, thus
freed for the nonce from the frumpish restrictions of the stereotyped
dulness of their cage. They were like irresponsible school-girls,
liberated from the cast-iron class-room rules; indeed it was not long
since both were hard and fast in these restraints; they were like
children, thinking no ill, confident or careless of approval, enjoying
the passing moment, freighted with scanty opportunity for pleasure
though it was, with a zest, a delight, a buoyancy of spirit, a capacity
to evolve fun from serious conditions which Jardine could not have
compassed at any period of his career. But he realised that there was
more responsibility in the office of their chaperon than he had deemed
possible when he had assumed Mrs. Laniston's charge and left her to her
well-earned rest at the hotel.
Suddenly the tempo of the music changed; the subtle charm of a simple
old melody was pulsing on the air and now it dwindled into a vague
diminuendo, and then to a pizzicato echo, in the midst of which a
clear, brilliant voice sounded singing in the distance. The curtain
went up with a rush; the stage was revealed flooded with yellow
sunlight and all a-dapple with the shadows of swaying peach-leaves from
boughs waving in the wind above. And what was that effect? How could
they have such strangely perfect scenery--the purple mountains, the
azure ranges of the distance, the blue sky bedight with a cloud all
opal and gold, and a river with a crystalline reflex of its splendour.
Before the simple expedient of dropping a section of the canvas
occurred to their minds a figure, lightsome, airy, featly dancing,
bounded into the illuminated centre of the scene. There was one moment
of amazed scrutiny--it was like some classic canephora of painting or
sculpture; then the eye recognised in the basket-like vessel poised on
the head, filled with trailing vines and purple grape clusters, the
familiar cedar piggin of the mountains; the antique-draped garb was but
the up-caught skirt of the conventional make, but with the yellow folds
so craftily held in plaits that they sustained a wealth of the grapes,
picturesquely trailing down over a dark wine-tinted petticoat, short
enough to disclose ankles and feet of a wonderful agility. The auburn
hair, soft, fluffy, rayonnant, was coiled in a knot of negligent charm,
and the head was thrown back as the dancer leaped with incredible
lightness and grace, catching with one hand toward the lure of a peach
on a bough out of her reach, now and then lifting it to poise the
basket, singing in a clear, true, sweet voice the lilting measures of
the old song. It was a short "turn"; she knew but the single stanza.
The effect was like some radiant, transient vision, the fleeting
allurement of the senses in a dream, as the curtain suddenly descended,
the light went out, and the vibrating echo of the violins ceased.
A moment of silent surprise; then the sound of the clapping of one
enthusiastic pair of hands, and presently the tent rocked with a tumult
of applause.
"By George--that's great!" cried Frank Laniston, red in the face from
his exertions, his hands banging together like machinery. He gazed in
sympathy at Jardine, who was fairly startled out of his composure and
applauding with a will.
"It is absolutely beautiful, and perfectly unique," he exclaimed.
The two young ladies were trying what resources of clatter the sticks
of their white fans might compass as they struck them against the palms
of their small white gloved hands.
The man in the old whitish grey coat, whom Lloyd had noticed earlier
in the audience, experiencing renewed anxiety lest some inimical
espionage might account for his purchase of a ticket to a performance
so ludicrous to his taste, sat in the midst of the clamour as still as
if he had been carved in stone. The enthusiasm had illumined all faces
save his--some subtle shadow of despondency had fallen upon it. He no
longer held it half muffled in the high collar and lapels of the big
old coat. It was shielded only by the drooping brim of the limp white
hat and he presently turned it hither and thither, looking in stunned
amazement and a deprecatory, remonstrant, unconscious inquiry at the
neighbouring spectators among the crowded benches. The flavour of his
secret jest had evaporated--he seemed to find naught to ridicule now.
"Why don't they raise that curtain, I wonder," growled Frank Laniston.
"It's as hot as Hades in here, working this way. Bless my soul, won't
she accept an encore?"
For the curtain remained immovable. Lloyd, startled by the unexpected
endorsement of the attraction he had devised, that had hitherto
fallen so flat, gratified by the applause as if it were a personal
commendation, flushed deeply red as he sat near the orchestra and with
smiling eyes waited too with all the rest for the conventional rising
of the curtain and the complaisant repetition of the number. He had
left nothing unforeseen in his instructions to the tyro. Clotilda had
been fully informed of the nature and exigencies of an encore, and
the course proper for her to pursue as the recipient of that great
compliment. But, alack, the turn had never received before a hand of
applause. In dead silence the rural crowd had heretofore watched the
scene and wondered futilely what was the point when a simple country
girl, in her old calico "coat," jumped around under a peach tree,
and sang a verse of an old song, a thing to be seen on any roadside.
Then they had silently filed out and there was an end for the time.
Now, however, since there was applause from so experienced and
discerning a source, a revised estimate seemed in order. Perhaps a new
interpretation waited upon a more æsthetic point of view. The applause
was hearty and general, and rose presently to an insistent clamour.
Clotilda, having had no occasion to respond to the plaudits of the
public, had forgotten every syllable of her instructions. Lloyd
remained yet some moments waiting, like the rest, eyeing the curtain,
in the immediate expectation of seeing it rise. The musicians had
their instruments in hand--at the tinkle of the bell they would begin
_da capo_. But the curtain continued absolutely blank; no sign of the
golden glow of the artificial light could be discerned, naught but the
ripples of the air, swiftly running over it as the draught from the
lowered canvas at the rear struck upon the fabric. Lloyd began to look
discomposed, then anxious, then as the applause redoubled its demand
he waited one uncertain moment longer, rose, advanced amongst the
orchestra, sprang upon the stage, pushed the curtain aside and vanished
behind its sphinx-like blankness.
"I never did really believe that he was the manager till this moment,"
said Lucia, a regretful cadence in her voice.
"What did you think he was, a duke in disguise?" chuckled Frank.
"Oh, yes, he _is_ the manager," said Ruth glibly, "and this is only the
by-play of the real romance staged here. He is in love with that pretty
girl, and was fascinated in training her."
Mr. Jardine had fended off the motley crowd from contact with his fair
charges as best he might by seating the two young ladies together, with
Frank on one side and himself on the other. But there was no protection
from the occupants of the seats just in front, and suddenly one of
these, a slovenly old wretch, in a dirty, whitey-grey coat and flapping
hat, turned and fixed an eager, intent, almost indignant gaze on Ruth's
face as she spoke. It was as if she had spoken a thought, a fear in
his own mind, and to Jardine's surprise he saw that the face was
young--young, but overgrown with the stubble of a three-days' beard, a
stiff, dark beard. Wisps of short, dark hair overhung the forehead, as
if a forelock were pulled of set purpose half over the eyes; for the
rest, the face was dirty, unwashed, one might have thought stained in
blotches--a repellent face, with fine, bright brown eyes. They turned
eagerly to Lucia as, all unnoting his demonstration, she replied to
Ruth's observation.
"I don't think she is so pretty," said Lucia critically. "It is the
artistic environment that makes it all so fetching, don't you think,
Mr. Jardine?"
He caught but the one word in the uproar of applause.
"Artistic--it _is_ indeed! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen
it. That scene has the true poetic glamour; it is as classic as an
eclogue of Virgil."
He could hardly speak for the clamour which overpowered the tinkle of
the bell, the earliest measures of the violins. As the curtain rose on
the golden glow came a sudden hush; the pizzicato of the violins fell
as trippingly as fairy feet on the silence; then the sound of singing
broke forth in the distance and the beautiful dancing figure appeared.
With familiarity one could note new effects, that, however, brought
no disparagement. The opal cloud in the scenery had turned to purple,
while the saffron cloud had held its glow. Once there was a sudden
mutter of thunder and a swift veining of white glister was revealed
amidst the hyacinthine tones.
As before, the scene was all too short, the beautiful dancing figure
but a glimpse. The curtain came down in a clamour of applause; as this
continued it rose after a short space. Clotilda had been schooled anew,
and she was a quick study. Nothing could have seemed more perfect,
more practised than her manner of smiling, grateful recognition as she
came forward to the footlights. She had removed the basket of grapes
from her head, but supported it in the round of her arm, half poised
against her hip; the other hand lightly touched the masses of grapes
held in the folds of her yellow dress, but it was obvious that their
artistic draping had been made hard and fast against accident. She
bowed with drooping eyelashes, and once more, lower still, she bowed,
all rustic grace and diffidence, and then the curtain came down with a
rush and the turn was triumphantly at an end.
"Couldn't Lucia photograph her, Mr. Jardine?" cried Ruth. "Oh, how I'd
love to have her in my collection."
He hesitated coldly for one moment; then as if suddenly bethinking
himself, eagerly assented.
"Doubtless--_doubtless_; you will want her in costume. I must speak to
the manager at once."
As he eagerly breasted the crowd, seeking to get in as the spectators
streamed out, the two young ladies, amazed by his willing co-operation,
which they had by no means expected, stood and gazed quizzically at
each other.
"A change of heart?" Lucia asked.
"Or a softening of the brain, perhaps," Ruth responded. Then they both
turned to note his progress and saw him already in courteous conference
with the manager. In fact Jardine had gladly embraced the opportunity
to give the impression to this very handsome man of low degree that
the highly placed and aristocratic Miss Lucia Laniston was out for
snap-shots in general, and was adding to her collection from features
of the town, the mountains, the fair, whatever presented itself as of
passing interest. This was an inference more creditable and becoming
than the possibility that she was greatly struck by the manly beauty of
Lloyd's countenance and desired to remember it, to have the likeness
to refresh her recollection, and thus caught the exceptional value of
his pose at the moment. Jardine did not tell, and he did not think it
necessary to tell, that Lloyd's face was the only one she had cared to
portray, and that the camera had not been placed in position before
and the slide drawn since she had been in town. He thought this an
obliteration of the dangerous flattery if the man had been complacent
and pleased by the discovery the click of the shutter had afforded
him, and a placation of the offence, had he taken umbrage, by the
apology suggested in the fact that he was only one of the many victims
of the raging camera. He was surprised by the grave and gentlemanly
address of the showman. Lloyd might have seemed indeed some man of high
grade, were it not for his accent. He would be very happy to oblige,
as far as he had any voice in the matter, but he must first ask the
"lydy." Most of the attractions of the show were photographed and their
portraits were on sale, but this lydy had very recently joined the
company, playing only a temporary engagement, in fact, and she had not
been photographed at all. Having also his reservations, he did not add
that it had not been thought worth while, the reality itself being so
incapable of sustaining interest.
Jardine, having carried his point, became afraid that he was playing
it a little too fine, as the two young ladies approached and he found
himself compelled to say, "This is the manager, Mr. Lloyd, ladies, and
he is in hopes he may be able to secure the photograph you desire."
Mr. Lloyd raised his hat in a manner to which no exceptions could have
been taken by the most exacting critic, and replying, "I shall be with
you again in a moment," stepped upon the stage and disappeared.
Mr. Jardine looked harassed; he took out his handkerchief and passed it
over his brow. It had been only one afternoon of chaperonage, but he
had all the indicia of brain fag. The two young ladies, silent, glanced
about at the queer, unaccustomed place; to his jaundiced mind they were
measuring its opportunities to furnish them occasion for more mischief.
Suddenly beside him the curtain drew up and the beautiful mountain girl
stood posed exactly as she had appeared before the audience.
She was flattered that her picture was to be taken--now and again her
lips parted over her beautiful teeth in a foolish little grin that
annulled every scintilla of poesy in her presence.
"I have tried this sort of thing a bit, myself, and I don't think the
perspective will answer unless the lydies are on a level. There is such
a--a--mixed crowd outside--will the lydy step on the stage?" suggested
Lloyd.
If for no other reason than the dismay on Jardine's high-featured,
disdainful face, Lucia signified her acquiescence, and accepting the
assistance of the manager's proffered outstretched hand she sprang
lightly on the boards. Lloyd's quick intuition interpreted the
expression on their several faces, for Jardine had instantly joined
her and she felt that she must mask her thoughts if she would not have
them read when Lloyd said, evidently in response to the protest in Mr.
Jardine's countenance--"This is quite retired, not at all public now."
Then glancing at the three or four people who were yet loitering and
staring at the figures on the stage, he called out loudly--"This is no
performance. Keep out of here!"
The wondering rustics slowly vanished; only one lingered and as Lloyd's
gaze fell upon him he recognised the figure clad in a whitey-gray
garb which had so persistently dogged his steps. His voice took on an
authoritative cadence.
"Clear out. This is no performance. Clear out, I say!"
The figure turned like a dog that would fain fly at the throat, yet
slinks in fear.
"I ain't carin' what you say," the intruder blustered. Then he slowly
slouched out, muttering to himself, with the flapping brim of his hat
well pulled down over his bright young eyes.
"You will make a lovely picture in that charming dress," Lucia said
blandly, as Lloyd stepped here and there, pulling at the curtain to get
a better light.
"It's all wore an' tore," Clotilda said deprecatingly. She did not
doubt the admiration of the men, but she was all abashed and awkward in
this presence of dainty feminine elegance. She scanned the two openly,
as if comparing their traits. Then she fixed her eyes sedulously on
Lucia. Her face was so out of drawing with this heavy, dully pondering,
loutish expression, so incongruous with the poetic charm she had
wrought, that Miss Laniston suggested:
"Sing--sing a line or two of that pretty song--sing, and dance a few
steps."
The girl lifted her docile head, sprang lightly into the air, her fresh
young voice floated out and suddenly the camera clicked.
"That is all, and when I get the pictures out I will come and see you
and bring some of them to you. This gentleman tells me you live near by
in the mountains. Where is your home?"
"He knows. He'll kem an' guide you," Clotilda easily promised for him.
Lucia turned to Lloyd, with her most entrancing smile. "Thanks, for
past and future favours," she said, realising the disastrous storm the
unexpected turn of events had roused in Mr. Jardine's conventional soul.
Lloyd bowed in gravest acknowledgment, and as she stepped down from the
stage she remarked:
"My first and last appearance on the boards."
"You graced them," said Ruth airily.
But the two men, heavily silent, said nothing.
Lloyd ceremoniously saw them to the door, as if he had been
entertaining them in the character of host, and as they departed he
lifted his hat with a dignity all at variance with the sudden humorous
cry of the spieler close at hand--"He eats 'em--he eats 'em alive!"
Lucia shrugged her disdainful shoulders.
"What an experience! What a place! The incongruities are amazing. I
feel as if I were in a fevered dream, or a grotesque fairy-tale."
"You'll ruin those films if you don't look out for that camera," Ruth
warned her, but she made no reply and swung the camera as carelessly as
before.