Alexanders Bridge | Page 9

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