“We can’t get it on too quick,” was Red’s instant decision. “It must be done here first, and then turned loose on the circuit. We can handle it. Nan Lockhart can help you get it up, Cary—and take the part of the Englishwoman, too. Of course Miss Fitch must do the French actress—she’s cut out for that. I’m inclined to think my wife would make the best Belgian mother. Tom can be the wounded young poilu, and you, Ray—will be the French officer to the life. As for the rest—we have plenty of decidedly clever young actors who will be equal to the minor parts.”
There was a general laugh. “I seem to see the footlights turned on already,” Cary declared. “But that’s not a bad assignment. Would you—” he turned to Black—“I wonder if you would take the part of the American surgeon.”
Now this was a great part, if a small one as to actual lines. Every eye turned to the minister. Fit the part—with that fine, candid face, those intent eyes? No doubt that he did. But he shook his head with decision.
“I’d do much for you, Ray,” he said, “but not that. It’s not possible for me to take a part. I’ve a real reason,” as Cary’s lips opened, “so don’t try to persuade me. But I’ll help in every way I can. And as for the surgeon—why not take the one at hand?” And he indicated Burns himself.
“I’ll do it!” announced Red, most unexpectedly.
They spent a fascinated hour discussing the characters and who could do them full justice. There was nobody to see, but if there had been a disinterested onlooker, he might have said to himself that here was a group of people who of themselves were playing out a little drama of their own, each quite unconsciously taking a significant part. There was R. P. Burns, M.D.—his red head and vigorous personality more or less dominating the scene. There was Ellen Burns, his wife—dark-eyed, serene, highly intelligent in the occasional suggestions she made, but mostly allowing others to talk while she listened with that effect of deep interest which made her so charming to everyone. There was Nan Lockhart, quick of wit and eager to bring all her past training to bear on the situation, her bright smile or her quizzical frown registering approval or criticism. There was Fanny Fitch, radiant with delight in the prospects opening before her, her eyes starry, her face repeating the rose-leaf hues of the scarf she wore within her sumptuous dark cape of fur—somehow Miss Fitch’s skillful dressing always gave a point of light and colour for the eye to rest gratifiedly upon. Then there was Robert Black, rather quiet to-night, but none the less a person to be decidedly taken into account, as was quite unconsciously proved by the eyes which turned his way whenever he broke his silence with question or suggestion. There was Tom Lockhart, somehow reminding one of a well-trained puppy endeavouring to maintain his dignity while bursting to make mischief; his impish glance resting on one face after another, his gay young speech occasionally causing everybody’s gravity to break down—as when he solemnly declared that unless he himself were allowed to play some austerely exalted part yet to be written into the play he would go home and never come back. There was Jane Ray, who sat next Tom, and who somehow looked to-night as young as he—younger, even, than Miss Fitch, whose elegance of attire contrasted curiously with Jane’s plain little dark-blue frock. Jane’s brunette beauty was deeply enhanced to-night by her warm colour and her brilliant smile; her sparkling eyes as she watched her brother gave everybody the impression that she was gloriously happy—as indeed she was. For was not Cary——
Cary himself was probably the figure in the room which, if this little scene had been actually part of a drama, would have become the focus of the audience’s absorption. Interesting as they were, the other actors only contributed to his success—he was the centre of the stage. Dark, lithe, his excitement showing only in his flashing eyes, his manner cool, controlled—he was the picture of an actor himself. He was keenly aware that the tables had suddenly been turned, and that from being a mysterious sort of invalid, Jane’s ne’er-do-well brother, he had emerged in an hour. He had gathered a wreath of laurels and set it upon his own brow, and was now challenging them all to say if he had not a place in the world after all, could not claim it by right of his amazing ability, could not ask to be forgiven all his sins in view of his dazzling exhibition of an art nobody had realized he possessed. Undeniably this was Cary’s hour, and Jane, being only human, and loving him very much, was daring to believe once again that her brother was redeemed to her. It may not be wondered at that now and again her eyes rested gratefully upon the two men who had done this thing for Cary—and for her. She knew that they must be rejoicing, too.
It was, therefore, something of a shock to her when from Robert Black, before they left, she had a low-toned warning. “Miss Ray—” Black had chosen his opportunity carefully; for the moment the two were well apart from the rest—“I don’t dare not tell you to look out for him to-night. After we are gone, and he is alone, there will come an hour of—well—he will be more vulnerable than he has been for a month. Don’t let him slip away—see him safely relaxed and asleep.”
Jane’s expression was incredulous. “Oh, not to-night, when he is so proud and happy—so glad to have you all his friends, and to show you at last that he is your equal in—so many ways.”
He nodded gravely: “Believe me, I know what I’m saying. It’s a bit of an intoxication in itself, this reaction from his long languor of mind. He’s done a magnificent thing, and he’s now in very great danger. Don’t allow yourself to minimize it.”