Wild Wings

by Margaret Piper Chalmers

  CHAPTER II

  WITH ROSALIND IN ARDEN

  Of course it is understood that every graduating class rightfullyasserts, and is backed up in its belief by doting and nobly partisanrelatives and blindly devoted, hyperbolic friends, that _its_ particular,unique and proper senior dramatics is the most glorious and unforgettableperformance in all the histrionic annals of the college, a thing to makeWill Shakespeare himself rise and applaud from his high and far off hillsof Paradise.

  Certainly Tony's class knew, past any qualms of doubt, and made no bonesof 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 inthe heavens and senior classes produced Shakespeare--two practicallysynonymous conditions--would there ever be such another Rosalind as TonyHoliday, so fresh, so spontaneous, so happy in her acting, sobewitchingly winsome to behold, so boyish, yet so exquisitely feminine inher doublet and hose, so daring, so dainty, so full of wit and grace andsparkle, so tender, so merry, so natural, so all-in-all and utterly asWill 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, orage cankered as to dispute the dictum? Is it not youth's privilege tofling enthusiasm and superlatives to the wind and to deal in gloriousarrogance?

  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 itspretensions and vain-glory. For had not a great stage manager beenpresent and applauded until his palms were purple and perspirationbeaded his beak of a nose? Had he not, as the last curtain, descended,blown his nose, mopped his brow, exclaimed "God bless my soul!" threetimes in succession and demanded to be shown without delay into thepresence of Rosalind?

  As we know already, the great stage manager had not come over-willinglyor over-hopefully to Northampton to see Tony Holiday play Rosalind.Indeed, when it had been first suggested that he do so, he had objectedviolently and remarked with conviction that he would "beda--er--_blessed_ if he would." But he had come and he had been blessedinvoluntarily.

  For he had seen something he had not expected to see--a real play, withreal magic to it, such magic as all his cunning stage artifice, all thestudied artistry of his fearfully and wonderfully salaried stellarattachments somehow missed achieving. He tried afterwards to explain toCarol 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 wordableperhaps. It was something that rendered negligible the occasionallycreaking mechanism and crudeness of stage business and rendition;something compounded of dew and sun and wind, such as could only be foundin a veritable Forest of Arden; something elusive, exquisite, iridescent;something he had supposed had vanished from the world about the time theyput Pan out of business and stopped up the Pipes of Arcady. It wasenchanting, elemental, genuine Elizabethan, had the spirit of MasterSkylark himself in it. Maybe it was the spirit of youth itself, immortalyouth, playing immortal youth's supreme play? Who knows or can lay fingerupon the secret of the magic? The great stage manager did not and couldnot. He only knew that, in spite of himself, he had drunk deep for amoment of true elixir.

  But as for Rosalind herself that was another matter. Max Hempel wasentirely capable of analyzing his impressions there and correlating themwith the cold hard business on which he had come. Even if the play hadproved a greater bore than he had anticipated, the trip from Broadway tothe Academy of Music would still have been materially worth while.Antoinette Holiday was a genuine find, authentic star stuff. They hadn'tspoiled her, plastered her over with meaningless mannerisms. She wasvirgin material--untrained, with worlds to learn, of course; but with aspark of the true fire in her--her mother's own daughter, which was themost promising thing anybody could say of her.

  No wonder Max Hempel had peremptorily demanded to be shown behind thescenes without an instant's delay. He was almost in a panic lest someother manager should likewise have gotten wind of this Rosalind and belurking in the wings even now to pounce upon his own legitimate prey. Hecouldn't quite forget either the tall young man of the afternoon'sencounter, his seatmate up from Springfield. He wasn't exactly afraid,however, having seen the girl and watched her live Rosalind. The childhad wings and would want to fly far and free with them, unless he wasmightily mistaken in his reading of her.

  Tony was still resplendent in her wedding white, and with her arms fullof roses, when she obeyed the summons to the stage door on being toldthat 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 Iam dreaming. As long as I can remember I have wanted to meet you, andhere 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 havegiven 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. Youcarried me off with you to Arden."

  "Did you really like the play?" begged Tony, shining-eyed at the praiseof the great man.

  "I liked it amazingly and I liked your playing even more amazingly. Is ittrue that you are going on the stage?" He had dropped Arden now, gottendown to what he would have called brass tacks. The difference was in hisvoice. 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 andthrust out his upper lip in a way Tony did not care for at all. Itoccurred to her inconsequentially that he looked a good deal like thewolf, in the story, who threatened to "huff and puff" until he blew inthe house of the little pigs. She didn't want her house blown in. Shewished Uncle Phil would come. She stooped to gather up her roses as ifthey might serve as a barricade between her and the wolf. But suddenlyshe forgot her misgivings again, for Max Hempel was saying incrediblethings, things which set her imagination agog and her pulses leaping. Hewas offering her a small role, a maid's part, in one of his roadcompanies.

  "Me!" she gasped from behind her roses.

  "You."

  "When?"

  "To-morrow--the day after--next week at the latest. Chances like thatdon'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 isUncle Phil!" she interrupted herself to exclaim with perceptible relief.

  In a moment Doctor Holiday was with them, his arm around Tony while heacknowledged the introduction to the stage manager, who eyed him somewhatuncordially. The two men took each the other's measure. Possibly a sparkof antagonism flashed between them for an instant. Each wanted the lovelylittle Rosalind on his own side of the fence, and each suspected theother of desiring to lure her to the other side if he could. For themoment however, the advantage was all with the doctor, with hisprotecting arm around Tony.

  "Holiday!" muttered Hempel. "There was a Holiday once who married one ofthe finest actresses of the American stage--carried her off to nurse hisbabies. I never forgave that man. He was a brute."

  Tony stiffened. Her eyes flashed. She drew away from her uncle andconfronted the stage manager angrily.

  "He wasn't a brute, if you mean my father!" she burst out. "My mother wasLaura LaRue."

  "I know it," grinned the manager, thoroughly delighted to have struckfire. 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 persona part in a practically all-star cast, touring the West. Do you mind?" hechallenged Doctor Holiday.

  "I should mind her accepting," said the other man tranquilly. "As it is,I am duly appreciative of th
e 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 managerfor hurting him like that.

  "I didn't," she protested indignantly. "You know I wouldn't promiseanything 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 insomewhere.

  Tony smiled a little wistfully.

  "I wanted to most awfully," she confessed, patting her uncle's arm totake 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'sdaughter isn't going to settle down to being either a butterfly or ablue-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 maybe 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 timecomes, Tony wishes to go on the stage, I shall not try to prevent her. Infact I shall help her in every way in my power."

  "Uncle Phil!" Tony's voice had a tiny catch in it. She knew hergrandmother would be bitterly opposed to her going on the stage, and hadimagined she would have to win even her uncle over by slow degrees to thegratifying of this desire of her heart. It had hurt her even to think ofhurting him or going against him in any way--he who was, "father andmother and a'" to her. Dear Uncle Phil! How he always understood and tookthe big, broad viewpoint!

  The manager grunted approval at that. His belligerency waned.

  "Congratulate you, sir. That's spoken like a man of sense. Evidently youare able to see over the wall farther than most of the witch-ridden NewEnglanders I've met. I should like the chance to launch this Rosalind ofyours. But don't make it too far off. Youth is the biggest drawing cardin the world and--the most transient. You have to get in the game earlyto get away with it. I'll start her whenever you say--next week--nextmonth--next year. Guarantee to have her ready to understudy a star inthree months and perhaps a star herself in six. She might jump into theheavens overnight. Stranger things have happened. What do you say? May Ihave an option on the young lady?"

  "That is rather too big a question to settle off hand at midnight. Tonyis barely twenty-two and she has home obligations which will have to beconsidered. Her grandmother is old and frail and--a New Englander of theold school."

  "Too bad," commiserated the manager. "But never mind all that. All I askis that you won't let her sign up with anybody else without giving me achance first."

  "I think we may safely promise that and thank you. Tony and I bothappreciate that you are doing her a good deal of honor for one smallschool girl, eh Tony?" The doctor smiled down at his flushed, starry-eyedniece. 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 orincredible to be potentially true. No grim specters of failure anddisillusionment and frustration dog its bright path. All possibilitiesare its divine inheritance.

  "Mr. Hempel, did you know my mother?" Tony asked suddenly, with a shadowof wistfulness in her dark eyes. There were so few people whom she metthat had known her mother. It was as if Laura LaRue had moved in adifferent orbit from that of her daughter. It always hurt Tony to feelthat. But here was one who was of her mother's own world. No wonder hereyes 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 haveever seen--and one of the greatest actresses. Your father was a luckyman, my dear. Few women would have given up for any man what she gaveup 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 useadmitting that that had been the deepest rub of all, that Laura had lovedNed Holiday and had never, for even the span of a moment, thought ofcaring for himself. "I repeat, your father was a very lucky man--adamnably lucky one."

  And with that they shook hands and parted.

  It was many months before Tony was to see Max Hempel again and manywaters 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 theheroine of the evening. The three latter greeted her with a burst ofprideful congratulation; the former, being merely a brother, wasdistinctly cross at having been kept waiting so long and did not hesitateto express his sentiments fully out loud. But Doctor Holiday cut shorthis nephew's somewhat ungracious speech by a quiet reminder that the carwas here primarily for Tony's use, and the boy subsided, having no moreto say until, having deposited the occupants of the car at their variousdestinations, he announced to his uncle with elaborate carelessness thathe would take the car around to the garage.

  But he did not turn in at the side street where the garage was. Insteadhe shot out Elm Street, "hitting her up" at forty. There had been areason for his impatience. Ted Holiday had important private business totransact ere cock crow.

  Tony lay awake a long time that night, dreaming dreams that carried herfar and far into the future, until Rosalind's happy triumph of theevening almost faded away in the glory of the yet-to-be. It wascharacteristic of the girl's stage of development that in all her dreams,no lovers, much less a possible husband, ever once entered. Tony Holidaywas in love with life and life alone that wonderful June night. As Hempelhad shrewdly perceived she was conscious of having wings and desirous offlying far and free with them ere she came to pause.

  She did remember, in passing however, how she had caught Dick's eyesonce as he sat in the box near the stage, and how his rapt gaze hadthrilled her to intenser playing of her part. And she remembered howdear he was afterward in the car when he held her roses and told hersoftly what a wonderful, wonderful Rosalind she was. But, on the whole,Dick, like most of the rest of the people with whom she had heldconverse since the curtain went down upon Arden, seemed unimportant andindistinct, like courtiers and foresters, not specifically named amongthe _dramatis personae_, just put in to fill out and make a moreeffective stage setting.

  Dick, too, in his room on Greene Street, was wakeful. He sat by thewindow far into the night. His heart was heavy within him. The gulfbetween him and Tony had suddenly widened immeasureably. She was a realactress. He hadn't needed a great manager's verdict to teach him that. Hehad seen it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears, felt it withhis own heart. He had worshiped and adored and been made unutterably sadand lonely by her dazzling success, glad as he was that it had come toher. Tony would go on in her shining path. He would always lag behind inthe 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 asto his parentage. He only knew that the man they called Jim, who hadkicked and beaten and sworn at him with foul oaths until he could bear itno longer, was no kin of his, though the other had claimed the authorityto abuse him as he abused his horses and dogs when drink and uglinesswere 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 theman knew of himself, and how he had come to be in a circus troupe. Yetafter all, perhaps it was better not to know. The facts might separatehim 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 himfrom the past. What he was, he was in himself. And if by any miracle offortune 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 ofus foiled humans learn to play t
he game of make-believe and to find suchconsolation as we may therein. Often and often in his lonely hours DickCarson had summoned Tony Holiday to his side, a Tony as bright andbeautiful and all adorable as the real Tony, but a dream Tony, withal, aTony who loved him even as he loved her. And in his make-believe he wasno longer a nameless, impecunious cub reporter, but a man who had arrivedsomewhere, made himself worthy, so far as any mere man could, of thesupreme gift of Tony's caring.

  To-night, too, Dick played the game determinedly, but somehow he foundits consolation rather meager, as cold and remote as the sparkle of theJune stars, millions of miles away up there in the velvet sky, afterhaving sat by the side of the living, breathing Tony and, looking intoher happy eyes, known how little, how very little, he was in herthoughts. She liked him to be near her, he knew, just as she liked herroses to be fragrant, but neither the roses nor himself was a vitalnecessity to her. She could do very well without either. That was thepity of it.

  At last he got up and went to bed. Falling into troubled sleep he dreamedthat 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 dingSweet 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 ownvoice, murmured, "Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I."

  And even with these words the forest vanished and Tony with it and thedreamer was left alone on a steep and dusty road, lost and aching for themissing touch of her hand.

  But later he woke to the song of a thousand birds greeting the new daywith full-throated joy. And his heart, too, began to sing. For it wasindeed a new day--a day in which he should see Tony. He was irrationallycontent. Of such is the kingdom of lad's love!