On the night
of his arrival in London, Alexander
went immediately
to the hotel on the Embankment
at which he always stopped, and
in the lobby he was accosted
by an old acquaintance, Maurice
Mainhall, who fell upon him with
effusive cordiality and indicated
a willingness to dine with him.
Bartley never dined alone if
he could help it, and Mainhall
was a good gossip who always
knew what had been going on in
town; especially, he knew everything
that was not printed in the newspapers.
The nephew of one of the standard
Victorian novelists, Mainhall
bobbed about among the various
literary cliques of London and
its outlying suburbs, careful
to lose touch with none of them.
He had written a number of books
himself; among them a "History
of Dancing," a "History of Costume," a "Key
to Shakespeare's Sonnets," a
study of "The Poetry of Ernest
Dowson," etc. Although Mainhall's
enthusiasm was often tiresome,
and although he was often unable
to distinguish between facts
and vivid figments of his imagination,
his imperturbable good nature
overcame even the people whom
he bored most, so that they ended
by becoming, in a reluctant manner,
his friends. In appearance, Mainhall
was astonishingly like the conventional
stage-Englishman of American
drama: tall and thin, with high,
hitching shoulders and a small
head glistening with closely
brushed yellow hair. He spoke
with an extreme Oxford accent,
and when he was talking well,
his face sometimes wore the rapt
expression of a very emotional
man listening to music. Mainhall
liked Alexander because he was
an engineer. He had preconceived
ideas about everything, and his
idea about Americans was that
they should be engineers or mechanics.
He hated them when they presumed
to be anything else.
While they
sat at dinner Mainhall acquainted
Bartley with the fortunes
of his old friends in London,
and as they left the table he
proposed that they should go
to see Hugh MacConnell's new
comedy, "Bog Lights."
"It's really quite the best
thing MacConnell's done," he
explained as they got into a
hansom. "It's tremendously well
put on, too. Florence Merrill
and Cyril Henderson. But Hilda
Burgoyne's the hit of the piece.
Hugh's written a delightful part
for her, and she's quite inexpressible.
It's been on only two weeks,
and I've been half a dozen times
already. I happen to have MacConnell's
box for tonight or there'd be
no chance of our getting places.
There's everything in seeing
Hilda while she's fresh in a
part. She's apt to grow a bit
stale after a time. The ones
who have any imagination do."
"Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander
exclaimed mildly. "Why, I haven't
heard of her for--years."
Mainhall laughed. "Then you
can't have heard much at all,
my dear Alexander. It's only
lately, since MacConnell and
his set have got hold of her,
that she's come up. Myself, I
always knew she had it in her.
If we had one real critic in
London--but what can one expect?
Do you know, Alexander,"-- Mainhall
looked with perplexity up into
the top of the hansom and rubbed
his pink cheek with his gloved
finger,--"do you know, I sometimes
think of taking to criticism
seriously myself. In a way, it
would be a sacrifice; but, dear
me, we do need some one."
Just then they
drove up to the Duke of York's,
so Alexander
did not commit himself, but followed
Mainhall into the theatre. When
they entered the stage-box on
the left the first act was well
under way, the scene being the
interior of a cabin in the south
of Ireland. As they sat down,
a burst of applause drew Alexander's
attention to the stage. Miss
Burgoyne and her donkey were
thrusting their heads in at the
half door. "After all," he reflected, "there's
small probability of her recognizing
me. She doubtless hasn't thought
of me for years." He felt the
enthusiasm of the house at once,
and in a few moments he was caught
up by the current of MacConnell's
irresistible comedy. The audience
had come forewarned, evidently,
and whenever the ragged slip
of a donkey-girl ran upon the
stage there was a deep murmur
of approbation, every one smiled
and glowed, and Mainhall hitched
his heavy chair a little nearer
the brass railing.
"You see," he murmured in Alexander's
ear, as the curtain fell on the
first act, "one almost never
sees a part like that done without
smartness or mawkishness. Of
course, Hilda is Irish,--the
Burgoynes have been stage people
for generations,--and she has
the Irish voice. It's delightful
to hear it in a London theatre.
That laugh, now, when she doubles
over at the hips--who ever heard
it out of Galway? She saves her
hand, too. She's at her best
in the second act. She's really
MacConnell's poetic motif, you
see; makes the whole thing a
fairy tale."
The second
act opened before Philly Doyle's
underground still,
with Peggy and her battered donkey
come in to smuggle a load of
potheen across the bog, and to
bring Philly word of what was
doing in the world without, and
of what was happening along the
roadsides and ditches with the
first gleam of fine weather.
Alexander, annoyed by Mainhall's
sighs and exclamations, watched
her with keen, half-skeptical
interest. As Mainhall had said,
she was the second act; the plot
and feeling alike depended upon
her lightness of foot, her lightness
of touch, upon the shrewdness
and deft fancifulness that played
alternately, and sometimes together,
in her mirthful brown eyes. When
she began to dance, by way of
showing the gossoons what she
had seen in the fairy rings at
night, the house broke into a
prolonged uproar. After her dance
she withdrew from the dialogue
and retreated to the ditch wall
back of Philly's burrow, where
she sat singing "The Rising of
the Moon" and making a wreath
of primroses for her donkey.
When the act was over Alexander
and Mainhall strolled out into
the corridor. They met a good
many acquaintances; Mainhall,
indeed, knew almost every one,
and he babbled on incontinently,
screwing his small head about
over his high collar. Presently
he hailed a tall, bearded man,
grim-browed and rather battered-looking,
who had his opera cloak on his
arm and his hat in his hand,
and who seemed to be on the point
of leaving the theatre.
"MacConnell,
let me introduce Mr. Bartley
Alexander. I say!
It's going famously to-night,
Mac. And what an audience! You'll
never do anything like this again,
mark me. A man writes to the
top of his bent only once."
The playwright
gave Mainhall a curious look
out of his deep-set
faded eyes and made a wry face. "And
have I done anything so fool
as that, now?" he asked.
"That's what I was saying," Mainhall
lounged a little nearer and dropped
into a tone even more conspicuously
confidential. "And you'll never
bring Hilda out like this again.
Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn't
possibly be better, you know."
MacConnell
grunted. "She'll
do well enough if she keeps her
pace and doesn't go off on us
in the middle of the season,
as she's more than like to do."
He nodded curtly and made for
the door, dodging acquaintances
as he went.
"Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured. "He's
hit terribly hard. He's been
wanting to marry Hilda these
three years and more. She doesn't
take up with anybody, you know.
Irene Burgoyne, one of her family,
told me in confidence that there
was a romance somewhere back
in the beginning. One of your
countrymen, Alexander, by the
way; an American student whom
she met in Paris, I believe.
I dare say it's quite true that
there's never been any one else." Mainhall
vouched for her constancy with
a loftiness that made Alexander
smile, even while a kind of rapid
excitement was tingling through
him. Blinking up at the lights,
Mainhall added in his luxurious,
worldly way: "She's an elegant
little person, and quite capable
of an extravagant bit of sentiment
like that. Here comes Sir Harry
Towne. He's another who's awfully
keen about her. Let me introduce
you. Sir Harry Towne, Mr. Bartley
Alexander, the American engineer."
Sir Harry Towne bowed and said
that he had met Mr. Alexander
and his wife in Tokyo.
Mainhall cut in impatiently.
"I say, Sir
Harry, the little girl's going
famously to-night,
isn't she?"
Sir Harry wrinkled
his brows judiciously. "Do
you know, I thought the dance
a bit conscious
to-night, for the first time.
The fact is, she's feeling rather
seedy, poor child. Westmere and
I were back after the first act,
and we thought she seemed quite
uncertain of herself. A little
attack of nerves, possibly."
He bowed as
the warning bell rang, and
Mainhall whispered: "You
know Lord Westmere, of course,--the
stooped man with the long gray
mustache, talking to Lady Dowle.
Lady Westmere is very fond of
Hilda."
When they reached
their box the house was darkened
and the
orchestra was playing "The Cloak
of Old Gaul." In a moment Peggy
was on the stage again, and Alexander
applauded vigorously with the
rest. He even leaned forward
over the rail a little. For some
reason he felt pleased and flattered
by the enthusiasm of the audience.
In the half-light he looked about
at the stalls and boxes and smiled
a little consciously, recalling
with amusement Sir Harry's judicial
frown. He was beginning to feel
a keen interest in the slender,
barefoot donkey-girl who slipped
in and out of the play, singing,
like some one winding through
a hilly field. He leaned forward
and beamed felicitations as warmly
as Mainhall himself when, at
the end of the play, she came
again and again before the curtain,
panting a little and flushed,
her eyes dancing and her eager,
nervous little mouth tremulous
with excitement.
When Alexander
returned to his hotel-- he
shook Mainhall
at the door of the theatre--
he had some supper brought up
to his room, and it was late
before he went to bed. He had
not thought of Hilda Burgoyne
for years; indeed, he had almost
forgotten her. He had last written
to her from Canada, after he
first met Winifred, telling her
that everything was changed with
him--that he had met a woman
whom he would marry if he could;
if he could not, then all the
more was everything changed for
him. Hilda had never replied
to his letter. He felt guilty
and unhappy about her for a time,
but after Winifred promised to
marry him he really forgot Hilda
altogether. When he wrote her
that everything was changed for
him, he was telling the truth.
After he met Winifred Pemberton
he seemed to himself like a different
man. One night when he and Winifred
were sitting together on the
bridge, he told her that things
had happened while he was studying
abroad that he was sorry for,--one
thing in particular,--and he
asked her whether she thought
she ought to know about them.
She considered a moment and then
said "No, I think not, though
I am glad you ask me. You see,
one can't be jealous about things
in general; but about particular,
definite, personal things,"--here
she had thrown her hands up to
his shoulders with a quick, impulsive
gesture--"oh, about those I should
be very jealous. I should torture
myself--I couldn't help it." After
that it was easy to forget, actually
to forget. He wondered to-night,
as he poured his wine, how many
times he had thought of Hilda
in the last ten years. He had
been in London more or less,
but he had never happened to
hear of her. "All the same," he
lifted his glass, "here's to
you, little Hilda. You've made
things come your way, and I never
thought you'd do it.
"Of course," he reflected, "she
always had that combination of
something homely and sensible,
and something utterly wild and
daft. But I never thought she'd
do anything. She hadn't much
ambition then, and she was too
fond of trifles. She must care
about the theatre a great deal
more than she used to. Perhaps
she has me to thank for something,
after all. Sometimes a little
jolt like that does one good.
She was a daft, generous little
thing. I'm glad she's held her
own since. After all, we were
awfully young. It was youth and
poverty and proximity, and everything
was young and kindly. I shouldn't
wonder if she could laugh about
it with me now. I shouldn't wonder--
But they've probably spoiled
her, so that she'd be tiresome
if one met her again."
Bartley smiled and yawned and
went to bed.
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