Wild Wings | Page 7

Master Skylark himself in it. Maybe it was the spirit of youth
itself, immortal youth, playing immortal youth's supreme play? Who
knows or can lay finger upon the secret of the magic? The great stage
manager did not and could not. He only knew that, in spite of himself,
he had drunk deep for a moment of true elixir.
But as for Rosalind herself that was another matter. Max Hempel was
entirely capable of analyzing his impressions there and correlating them
with the cold hard business on which he had come. Even if the play had
proved a greater bore than he had anticipated, the trip from Broadway
to the Academy of Music would still have been materially worth while.
Antoinette Holiday was a genuine find, authentic star stuff. They hadn't
spoiled her, plastered her over with meaningless mannerisms. She was
virgin material--untrained, with worlds to learn, of course; but with a
spark of the true fire in her--her mother's own daughter, which was the
most promising thing anybody could say of her.
No wonder Max Hempel had peremptorily demanded to be shown
behind the scenes without an instant's delay. He was almost in a panic
lest some other manager should likewise have gotten wind of this
Rosalind and be lurking in the wings even now to pounce upon his own
legitimate prey. He couldn't quite forget either the tall young man of
the afternoon's encounter, his seatmate up from Springfield. He wasn't
exactly afraid, however, having seen the girl and watched her live

Rosalind. The child had wings and would want to fly far and free with
them, unless he was mightily mistaken in his reading of her.
Tony was still resplendent in her wedding white, and with her arms full
of roses, when she obeyed the summons to the stage door on being told
that 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 I am
dreaming. As long as I can remember I have wanted to meet you, and
here 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 have
given 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.
You carried me off with you to Arden."
"Did you really like the play?" begged Tony, shining-eyed at the praise
of the great man.
"I liked it amazingly and I liked your playing even more amazingly. Is
it true that you are going on the stage?" He had dropped Arden now,
gotten down to what he would have called brass tacks. The difference
was in his voice. 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
and thrust out his upper lip in a way Tony did not care for at all. It
occurred to her inconsequentially that he looked a good deal like the
wolf, in the story, who threatened to "huff and puff" until he blew in
the house of the little pigs. She didn't want her house blown in. She

wished Uncle Phil would come. She stooped to gather up her roses as if
they might serve as a barricade between her and the wolf. But suddenly
she forgot her misgivings again, for Max Hempel was saying incredible
things, things which set her imagination agog and her pulses leaping.
He was offering her a small role, a maid's part, in one of his road
companies.
"Me!" she gasped from behind her roses.
"You."
"When?"
"To-morrow--the day after--next week at the latest. Chances like that
don'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 is
Uncle Phil!" she interrupted herself to exclaim with perceptible relief.
In a moment Doctor Holiday was with them, his arm around Tony
while he acknowledged the introduction to the stage manager, who
eyed him somewhat uncordially. The two men took each the other's
measure. Possibly a spark of antagonism flashed between them for an
instant. Each wanted the lovely little Rosalind on his own side of the
fence, and each suspected the other of desiring to lure her to the other
side if he could. For the moment however, the advantage was all with