Summer must have made one day in June purposely as a setting for a pastoral comedy; and chance stole it, like a kindly knave, and gave it to the Sylvan Players. Never did a gathering of people look down from the rise of a natural amphitheater upon a fairer scene; a Forest of Arden, built by the greatest scenic artist since the world began. Birds flew about the trees and sang—whenever the orchestra permitted; a rabbit or two scuttled out from under rhododendron-bushes and skipped in shy ingénue fashion across the stage; while overhead a blue, windless sky spread radiance about players and audience alike.
Shorn of so much of the theatricalism of ordinary stage performances, there was reality and charm about this that warmed the spectators into frequent bursts of spontaneous enthusiasm which were as draughts of elixir to the players. Those who were playing creditably played well; those who were playing well excelled themselves, and Patsy outplayed them all.
She lived every minute of the three hours that spanned the throwing of Charles, the wrestler, and her promise “to make all this matter even.” There was no touch of coarseness in her rollicking laughter, no hoydenish swagger in her masquerading; it was all subtly, irresistibly feminine. And George Travis, watching from the obscurity of a back seat, pounded his knee with triumph and swore he would make her the greatest Shakespearean actress of the day.
As Hymen sang her parting song, Patsy scanned the sea of faces beyond the bank of juniper which served instead of footlights. Already she had picked out Travis, Janet Payne and her party, the people from Quality House, who still gaped at her, unbelieving, and young Peterson-Jones, looking more melancholy, myopic, and poetical than before. But the one face she hoped to find was missing, even among the stragglers at the back; and it took all her self-control to keep disappointment and an odd, hurt feeling out of her voice as she gave the epilogue.
On the way to her tent—a half-score of them were used as dressing-rooms behind the stage—George Travis overtook her. “It’s all right, girl. You’ve made a bigger hit than even I expected. I’m going to try you out in—”
Patsy cut him short. “You sat at the back. Did you see a vagabond lad hanging around anywhere—with a limp to him?”
The manager looked at her with amused toleration. “Does a mere man happen to be of more consequence this minute than your success? Oh, I say, that’s not like you, Irish Patsy!”
She crimsoned, and the manager teased no more. “We play Greyfriars to-morrow and back to Brambleside the day after; and I’ve made up my mind to try you out there in Juliet. If you can handle tragedy as you can comedy, I’ll star you next winter on Broadway. Oh, your future’s very nearly made, you lucky girl!”
But Patsy, slipping into her tent, hardly heard the last. If they played Greyfriars the next day, that meant they would leave Arden on the first train after they were packed; and that meant she was passing once and for all beyond tramping reach of the tinker. There was a dull ache at her heart which she attempted neither to explain nor to analyze; it was there—that was enough. With impatient fingers she tore off Rosalind’s wedding finery and attacked her make-up. Then she lingered over her dressing, hoping to avoid the rest of the company and any congratulatory friends who might happen to be browsing around. She wanted to be alone with her memories—to have and to hold them a little longer before they should grow too dim and far away.
A hand scratched at the flap of her tent and Janet Payne’s voice broke into her reverie: “Can’t we see you, please, for just a moment? We’ll solemnly promise not to stay long.”