FullReads

“Oh, I would do more than that for Mary Penrose,” said she, with a little difficulty. “She knows it. She wired me as a mad last hope today, and we came as fast as we could, Mr. Coppered and I.” And she introduced Duncan very simply: “My stepson, Mr. Wyatt.”

Duncan, fuming, could be silent no longer.

“I hope my–Mrs. Coppered is not serious in offering to do this,” said he, very white, and in a slightly shaking voice. “I assure you that my father–that every one!–would think it a most extraordinary thing to do!”

Mrs. Coppered laid her hand lightly on his arm.

“Yes, I know, Duncan!” said she, quickly, soothingly. “I know how you feel! But–“

Duncan slightly repudiated the touch.

“I can’t think how you can consider it!” he said passionately, but in a low voice. “A thing like this always gets out! You know–you know how your having been on the stage is regarded by our friends! It is simply insane–“

He had said a little more than he meant, in his high feeling, and Margaret’s face had grown white.

“I asked you only for your escort, Duncan,” she said gently, but with blazing eyes. There was open hostility in the look they exchanged.

“I can’t see what good my escort does,” said the boy, childishly, “when you won’t listen to what you know is true!”

“Nevertheless, I still want it,” she answered evenly. And after a moment Duncan, true to his training, and already a little ashamed of his ineffectual outburst,–for to waste a display of emotion was, in his code, a lamentable breach of etiquette,–shrugged his shoulders.

“Still want to stay with it?” said Mr. Wyatt, giving her a shrewd, friendly look.

“Certainly,” she said promptly; but she was breathing fast.

“Then we might go and talk things over,” he said; and a moment later they were crossing the theatre to the stage door. The final curtain had fallen only a moment before, but the lights were up, the orchestra halfway through a swift waltz, and the audience, buttoning coats and struggling with gloves, was pouring up the aisles. Duncan, through all his anger and apprehension, felt a little thrill of superiority over these departing playgoers as he and his stepmother were admitted behind the scenes. He was young, and the imagined romance of green-rooms and footlights appealed to him.

The company, suddenly summoned, appeared in various stages of street and stage attire. Peg, a handsome young woman with brilliant color and golden hair, still wore her brocaded gown and patches, and wore, in addition, a slightly affronted look at this unprecedented proceeding. The other members of the cast, yawning, slightly curious, were grouped about in the great draughty space between the wings that it cost Duncan some little effort to realize was the stage.

From this group, as Margaret followed the stage manager into the circle of light, a little woman suddenly detached herself, and, running across the stage and breaking into sobs as she ran, she was in Margaret’s arms in a second.

“Oh, Meg, Meg, Meg!” she cried, laughing and crying at the same time. “I knew you’d come! I knew you’d manage it somehow! I’ve been praying so–I’ve been watching the clock! Oh, Meg,” she went on pitifully, fumbling blindly for a handkerchief, “he’s been suffering so, and I had to leave him! They thought he was asleep, but when I tried to loosen his little hand he woke up!”

“Mary–Mary!” said Mrs. Coppered, soothingly, patting the bowed shoulder. No one else moved; a breathless attention held the group. “Of course I came,” she went on, with a little triumphant laugh, “and I think everything’s ALL right!”

“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Penrose, with a convulsive effort at self-control. She caught Margaret’s soft big muff, and drew it across her eyes. “I’m ru-ru-ruining your fur, Margaret!” she said, laughing through tears, “but–but seeing you this way, and realizing that I could go–go–go to him now–“

“Mary, you must NOT cry this way,” said Mrs. Coppered, seriously. “You don’t want little Phil to see you with red eyes, do you? Mr. Wyatt and I have been talking it over,” she went on, “but it remains to be seen, dear, if all the members of the company are willing to go to the trouble.” Her apologetic look went around the listening circle. “It inconveniences every one, you know, and it would mean a rehearsal tonight–this minute, in fact, when every one’s tired and cold.” Her voice was soothing, very low. But the gentle tones carried their message to every one there. The mortal cleverness of such an appeal struck Duncan sharply, as an onlooker.