XI
Colonel Denbighaccompanied his guests to the door, and, after the farewells were sufficiently prolonged to suit his old-fashioned ways, he stood on the piazza and watched them to the gate. Fanchon turned there, a small, graceful creature, and kissed her hand to him. The colonel waved. William raised his hat, and the two figures turned off into the street.
As they grew smaller in the distance, Virginia came out and stood beside her grandfather.
“A pretty creature,” said the colonel thoughtfully. “Claws in velvet! What do you think of her, Jinny?”
“I don’t know,” Virginia replied honestly. “She’s pretty—but there’s something I can’t describe. She’s like a wild bird just put in a gilt cage. It’s a terribly trite simile, but it fits her. She’s beating her wings.”
“That’s poetry, Jinny,” said the colonel, chuckling. “It’s because she’s young and pretty. If she’d been a man, with that kind of an eye, we would have said something about beating his hoofs—I mean cloven ones. She sings like a bird,dances like a fairy, and behaves—well, I remember that Mrs. Payson called her something in French. What was it, eh? Maybe it takes French to express her.”
Virginia flushed.
“She called her a littleétourdie. Of course she does queer things; she’s not well-bred, and she seems like a bundle of impulsive whims, but she’s rather captivating in all of them, and fascinating in some.”
“Humph!” The colonel pulled his mustache thoughtfully. “I see you’re determined to like her, Jinny.”
“I want to—yes.”
“You can’t,” said the colonel gently, laying his hand on her shoulder. “It’s a case of sugar and salt, you can’t mix ’em. Don’t try too hard, Jinny. Leave her alone.”
Something in his tone made Virginia look up quickly.
“Why, sir?”
Colonel Denbigh hesitated; then he blushed like a girl.
“I don’t talk scandal, Jinny, you know that, but I hear some. Let her alone.”
“Oh, that dance—”
He shook his head.
“No, not the dance. That only unloosedtongues. You spoke of that man, Caraffi’s manager—what was his name?”
“Corwin. A horrid creature,” said Virginia, suddenly recalling Fanchon’s face when she saw him in the waiting-room of the hall.
The colonel nodded.
“Corwin—that’s the name. Well, William’s wife knows him, she’s been seen walking with him. There’s talk about it. It may be all false, but I’d rather you kept away.”
Virginia had grown very thoughtful.
“I remember now, grandfather. She seemed afraid of him, poor girl. He’s a terrible creature, I’m sure—I wonder if he isn’t doing it on purpose? Starting the talk, I mean.”
“Very likely,” said the colonel dryly; “but he’d have to have something to start on. When there’s so much smoke, there’s some fire. I don’t like her, and yet”—he smiled—“what a pretty creature!”
“She’s not twenty, I’m sure. I think it’s wicked to talk so about her.” Virginia flushed generously. “Why are people so cruel?”
The colonel smiled.
“Jinny,” he said gently, “that little woman wouldn’t raise her finger to save you from the gallows.”
Virginia’s blush deepened.
“That doesn’t matter, grandfather!”
The old man looked at her proudly. She was standing beside him, her tall young head nearly level with his own, and her charming profile toward him. She had a look that was better in his eyes than mere beauty—a look of noble purity. He had never known her, even in childhood, to tell a falsehood. He patted her shoulder.
“I leave it to you, Jinny. I reckon I can trust you. But there’s one thing I want to say.” He hesitated, then he finished firmly: “That boy, William, disappoints me. He’s lost his grip. He’s been keeping gay company, I reckon, and he looks as if he’d been drinking. If it wasn’t for his lameness, Daniel’s twice the man!”
Virginia said nothing. She couldn’t; her heart was beating in her throat. She remembered William’s face when she returned the ring.
The colonel kept his hand on her shoulder, and they stood together, looking out across the close-cut lawn. Lucas, having put up the horses, was running a lawn-mower near the gate. It was that hour when the shadows begin to lengthen and one perceives the fragrance of the honeysuckle. It seemed to penetrate the late, warm afternoon, and to gather bees.
“Jinny, who’s that man—the fat man with a bald head?” the colonel asked presently. “He’seither a real-estate man or a lunatic. He wants to buy the place, I reckon. See him?”
Virginia, who had been in a trance, roused herself. Her eyes fell on a stout figure advancing toward the piazza, hat in hand.
“He wants to tune the piano, grandpa, or to varnish the mahogany tables.” She laughed softly, and fled lightly toward the door. “I’m going. You can send him away. I refuse to be varnished!”
The colonel heard her flight to the stairs; but he stood his ground and waited, a twinkle in his eye. The stout man approached steadily, with an expression of genial politeness. He had an air of feeling his own importance, but being willing to condescend. He wore a finely-tailored suit, a sport necktie with a diamond pin, and in the sunshine, his bald head looked like a piece of polished pink coral set in Florida moss.
“Colonel Denbigh, I believe?” he said suavely.
The colonel bowed politely.
“That’s my name, sir.”
Mr. Bernstein presented his card.
“I’d like a word with you, colonel. Strictly business—important, confidential business.”
The colonel regarded him a moment with the same twinkle in his eyes; then he descended the piazza steps.
“Come this way, Mr. Bernstein. I like to sit out of doors. Have a cigar?”
Mr. Bernstein accepted. They had reached the back of the house now, and he stopped short.
“Gee, what a view! Ain’t that about three thousand feet out there? Finest three-reel picture I ever got in a bird’s-eye view! Only wants a little life in it, colonel—a cow and a rough-rider, and maybe a couple of bandits. It’s just the set—with them mountains behind.”
The colonel, who had reached his favorite seat under the horse-chestnut, looked startled.
“I reckon you’re a movie man, aren’t you?” he inquired mildly.
“Had ’em before?” Mr. Bernstein looked anxious.
“One or two. This place seems to appeal to them. Sit down, Mr. Bernstein, you’ll find that seat comfortable. I always take this one—I’m getting old and set in my ways. I suppose it’s the place you’re interested in?”
Mr. Bernstein edged his chair closer to the wicker table and leaned across it.
“Say,” he began with a glow of enthusiasm, “this place and that servant and you! It would be great. I says to Greenfield—he’s my best director—I says to him before I came up here, ‘Now what we want is one of them old-time, sort ofbefore-the-war Southern aristocrats.’ When I saw you, colonel, I—gee, sir, I says to myself: ‘Sammy Bernstein, there’s your man!’ It ain’t your clothes, colonel, it’s the way you look. Say, I’ve got a fellow at the studio—dress him up in a silk hat and white tie and patent-leather pumps, and he looks like a duke. But you put that guy into his every-days, and, bless your soul, you wouldn’t know him from a tin-peddler! Now, it ain’t so with you. You’d look the part in your shirt-sleeves. When I saw you, I says to myself: ‘Sam Bernstein, there’s the real article—ain’t any near-seal about that, either!’”
“Mr. Bernstein, say no more,” said the colonel. “I’m a modest man!”
Bernstein expanded, smiling.
“Sir, I’ll make it two thousand dollars for this place, that old negro, and you in one five-reeler. Two thousand dollars down! Isn’t any work in it. You just stand and look natural.”
This time the colonel’s eyes did more than twinkle; he laughed heartily.
“Mr. Bernstein, I never looked natural before a camera in my life. I’m afraid we can’t come to an agreement. I’m too old for the movies, sir. I’ll have to decline.”
Bernstein’s face fell.
“You don’t mean it, colonel; you can’t mean that!”
The colonel nodded, then he pulled a moment at his cigar.
“I’m afraid I do mean it. Perhaps Plato—that’s my man—might be interested. I’ll ask him.”
Bernstein held up his hands.
“Not without you, colonel!” He sat and stared for a moment at the old man opposite, a look of hopeless commiseration on his face. “Say,” he groaned at last, “you people down here haven’t got any enterprise! This is my second experience. I’m surprised, colonel; I’m pained. This town—it’s perfect, sir, for the part, it’s kind of dead-and-alive and shady, and there’s the pickaninnies. You could do any amount of close-ups and cut-backs on ’em. Gee, it’s too bad!” He shook his head regretfully.
“I reckon you could get the pickaninnies all right,” remarked the colonel comfortingly. “Tried it?”
Mr. Bernstein shook his head.
“No, sir! I’ve been after Mrs. William Carter. Know her?”
The colonel, a little startled, took the cigar from between his teeth.
“I have that honor, sir.”
The motion-picture manager turned his head slowly and gave him a cryptic look. Then he knocked the ashes from his cigar, stuck it in the other corner of his mouth, and resumed sadly:
“It was that dance of hers. That’s what took me! At the church sociable, colonel. Believe me, I was never so thrilled in my life. I was doin’ the town, looking for a place”—Mr. Bernstein waved his hand with a melancholy air—“for this place, sir. Well, I was goin’ down Main Street, an’ I see them headlights. ‘Something doing here,’ thinks I, ‘an’ I’ll have a look.’ Didn’t expect anything; but somehow I went in, an’ the very first thing I see is that dance. Gee whiz! I says to myself: ‘Sammy Bernstein, this is your lucky day; this is a find!’”
Colonel Denbigh laid down the stump of his cigar and pulled his mustache.
“I suppose you’ve asked her?”
“I did. And I’ll say right now that I don’t think—what’s his name?—Mr. William Henry Carter’s got any horse-sense. He took on as if I’d insulted him when I was offerin’ his wife five hundred dollars a week. That’s what I offered, Colonel Denbigh—five hundred dollars a week, good money.”
The colonel looked reflective.
“I’m afraid we’re behind the times down here,Mr. Bernstein. I reckon Mr. Carter doesn’t like publicity. We’re quiet, backwoods people, sir,” he added with a twinkle. “I know the lady. She’s mighty pretty, and I agree with you she’d make a mighty fine picture. Just the style you want, too.”
“No, sir, not my style. The public—well, it’s this way. They like ’em small, an’ this lady’s just the pattern—a cute, dark little thing. Personally”—Mr. Bernstein sighed—“I like ’em large. Now there’s Rosamond Silvertree—you know her, of course, colonel?”
Again the colonel smoothed his mustache thoughtfully.
“Can’t say that I do, sir,” he replied gently. “Pretty name, though?”
“Don’t know Rosamond Silvertree?” Mr. Bernstein struck the table with the palm of his hand. “Sir, you’re behind your times! She’s a motion-picture star, sir! She’s my ideal woman, Colonel Denbigh. She’s five feet eleven inches, and she weighs one hundred and eighty-seven pounds. She’s a peach, sir! Got those blue eyes that go to the heart, and her hair’s the color of butter—makes you think of good butter in spring-time! I have her on the screen all the time. The poor girl’s nearly worn out. The only trouble is you can’t always get men to play opposite toher. Greenfield comes up one day last month. ‘Sammy,’ says he, ‘I can’t put Rosy in “The Dream of the Harem.”’ ‘What in thunder d’you mean by that?’ says I. ‘Can’t do it,’ says he. ‘Jack Pickling’—that’s our leading man—‘Jack Pickling looks like a shrimp beside of her!’ What d’you think I did, Colonel Denbigh?”
The colonel shook his head gravely.
“I’ve no idea, sir. Put her on a diet?”
“Diet? Rosy? No, sir! I fired Jack Pickling!”
Bernstein lay back in his chair and smiled. He felt that he had reached the climax, but the climax was lost on Colonel Denbigh.
“If your leading lady is so fine, I shouldn’t think you’d need Mrs. Carter,” he observed mildly.
Mr. Bernstein smiled with a superior air.
“That’s just why I do need her! You see, Rosy won’t do for these little teeny-weeny ingénue parts. She’s too grand! Mrs. Carter’s the kid for those. That’s what I want her for. But this Aristide Corwin”—Mr. Bernstein leaned over the table and touched the colonel’s sleeve with his fat forefinger—“Aristide ain’t behaving like a gentleman, Colonel Denbigh. He knew the lady in France, and he’s got some kind of a pull. I guess he wants her in vaudeville again. She’s been there once, I know. He’s using his methods—theyain’t mine, sir! He’s talkin’ bad, he—”
Colonel Denbigh rose abruptly and stood looking down on Mr. Bernstein from his full height.
“I know the Carters, sir,” he said sternly. “I’ve known Mr. Johnson Carter since I was a young man. His boys played on this place. I have the honor of his daughter-in-law’s acquaintance. You will kindly drop this subject, sir!”
Mr. Bernstein rose also. He was very pale, but the small eyes in the creases of his fat face looked honest. They even looked indignant.
“No offense, colonel,” he said, “no offense. If you’re a friend of the lady, I think you ought to know. Corwin’s been persecuting her before. I’ve heard he drove her out of London. He’s after her again, he means mischief. I know Aristide! If you’re—”
He stopped with his mouth open. The colonel had walked away and left him.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” said Mr. Bernstein, staring after the old man’s erect figure. “I’m darned! Now, Sammy Bernstein, that comes of trying to help a woman. Never again!”
He selected a cigar from the box that Colonel Denbigh had unwittingly left upon the table, and, having lit it with the colonel’s match, he wentslowly and thoughtfully away. As he went, he sighed.
“Too bad, too bad!” he muttered. “Take him all around, the lean way he stands—with striped trousers an’ that property coat—he’d make just an ideal close-up! I wonder”—he rubbed his bald head thoughtfully—“I wonder if he’d have dropped if I’d offered him three thousand dollars to playUncle Samopposite to Rosy’sLiberty?”