HANDMAID TO FAME

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 February 1939, Page 10

HANDMAID TO FAME

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT.

BY

BERTA RUCK.

(Continued)

“Let him. say what he's got to say, Terry,” said Flower laughing. She picked out one of the lovely carnations and sniffed at it, gracefully. (Everything’ the woman did was the perfection of grace!) Earnestly her husband went on. “Miss Grey, I want to tell you that if that little girl had been lost to me, the sunshine would have gone out of my life. And never came back again. Never! You’ve given it back to me, Miss Grey. I thank you.” His voice trembled, and his lovely Flower moved across to him to slip her hand into his arm. “Miss Grey, you have given my sunshine back to me. I don’t see as there’s anything more I can say. If only there were something I could do for you ” “But Elmer, there is,” exclaimed Flower suddenly. Her whole beautiful face lighted up—and why? What Elmer had said just now to Terry had had far less impression upon Terry herself than it had upon Elmer’s wife. It had shown her exactly how much Elmer did feel. Flower, who for the first time in a life of admiration and adulation, had become unsure of herself, and her power to hold a man, had fretted —was now made happy. Confidence had returned to her as she listened to Elmer’s words. The sunshine? She was that to him? He only thought of her? —A glow of gratitude went out of her towards this girl not so much for having saved her life, but for having drawn that tribute from Elmer. “Listen, Elmer! Listen! You’re quite right about Terry being too modest. She is. She’s clever. D’you know the girl’s written a play?” “Ah? A play.”—That rang a bell in the memory of Elmer K. So many people had been introduced with the announcement that they had written a play, or that they wanted to put on the world’s most marvellous picture . .

All flops, all scroungers . . But this was different. —“Has it got a backer, her play?” “No. That’s the point.” “I’ll back it,” promised Elmer, without more ado. “We’ll give it a chance. Never mind what I said about not backing any more plays. I’m happy enough to back a succession'of failures now and to smile, smile, smile. Miss Grey, I’ll just have to tell you why. Th 6 night I came down from the mountains to find—what might have been that awful accident. I had the doctor give a look at Flower. To see if there was anything wrong with her, chill or anything. And there wasn’t. But, on the contrary, there was only very welcome news.”

“And Terry, that is why I have been so impossible to you,” added the lovely Flower. “You know, people are allowed to be a little unreasonable when they’re going to havb a baby? It was only that, Terry. Only that!” (Presently, she would probably believe it).

“Oh!” exclaimed Terry. “I’m so glad!” “But about your first play Miss Grey, I say I’ll back it, whatever it’s like. There isn’t any play that can’t be | pulled round, beginner or not. I don't care whether it’s good, or whether it’s awful ” “It’s all right,” protested Terry through her nose, and feebly, but with all the mother-love for the child of her brain that Flower would presently know for Bud Osgood. “It bay be by first play. But —but but it s good! Upon which the multi-millionaire, catching hold of Flower with one hand, grasped, with the other, Terry’s rather wasted little paw. “So long! I’ll be seeing you. You’ll be hearing from me!” Then, as who should say, “I am just going” across the road to buy a newspaper,” he told her, “I m just going to charter an aeroplane to get us back to London. We shall have to go to London to engage a theatre.” At that moment Terry did not even take in the marvellous news. Her head was aching, feeling so stuffed up and stupid . . she had to let it fall back on the pillow. . . All she could say was “Bore aspirin. Now though all of us are at times in the position of children crying for the moon and though at less frequent times the moon has been known to fall into our laps, it is nearly always a disappointment. Here were Terry and Vai, whose whole hearts had been set on finding a backer for their collaborated play, who had given up the entire idea of it, suddenly granted their wish. “A small reward,” he said, “for bravery.” Reward of luck, said others. Anyhow, Mr Elmer K. Osgood was going to back it. The Osgood millions, or some of them, were behind the play. All should now have gone smoothly. It did not. No sooner wbre they back in London than everything went To begin with —the difficulty of engaging a theatre! This seemed to be almost insuperable:. Every possible theatre appeared to be engaged. One or two possibilities were voted too far out; one was too small. One was too large. After this came the great leading lady difficulty. The artists on whom Terry had set her heart because Vai had said, “I tell who who I see playing Isabel-she was all contracted up. The next best had gone to Hollywood. Followed weeks of waiting. They were not empty weeks. There was the marriage—a regular society splash, of Guy Lavery and his Bishop s daughter, for one thing. And it was at this marriage that Vai Lavery first met the girl Jean. She was some relation to the Bishop’s daughter; she, too, combined being “snappy” with being highly conventional. Jean, too, was muc approved of by old Mrs Lavery.

Terry thought, with a sinking heart, “That’s his fate?” Meanwhile, Vai got a small part in a short film and Terry saw little of him. The continuity on that unit showed no signs whatsoever of fainting on the set and allowing a stranger to usurp her place. Terry relapsed into her private job of sorting Mr Vai Lavery’s papers and conducting his correspondence. To this was added varied nibbles for the play, possibilities of theatres which fell through, managers who all seemed unable to “manage” anything whatsoever. At the end of August Terry was reduced. to think “Good-bye summer.” A marvellous summer it had been for I one silly little second fiddle. First I’d 27 years of nothing happening, then | came this whole summer full of excitements. I ought to be able to take it, even if nothing happens again.” Then they began happening again; things. The first of them was the telephone call that marked the return of Clive; Major Clive, the old campaigner who had gone out of Terry’s life, warning her that it was only for the time being and who now came back to tell her he was not going to take no for an answer. “I am afraid you must- —” He let that pass and went on: “Anyhow, may I .come to tea with you tomorrow; Sunday?” Terry -sighed. Then she remembered. She was having someone else to tea, anyhow; her little Irish friend Eily Regan, the girl in the blue hat who, all those ages ago, had been stand-in for Flower Armitage in “Venus Rises.” “Very well, Clive, come to tea. I’m having tea at four.” “Anyone else coming?” “Yes, a girl I know.” Major Clive decided to come to tea at 3.30, so as to give himself time to put in a word for himself with Terry. By now she ought to have come to her senses. ■ CHAPTER XIII. “Now Terry, there has been quite enough of all this absurd rubbish you talk about not wanting to get married,” began Clive, as he sat down in the corner of her little sitting-room. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, threw out of his chair the cushion at his back, crossed his legs again, and assumed the expression of a man who is there on definite business; as he was. From half-past three to a quarter to four “Clive of India” repeated, verbatim, everything he had said to Terry when he proposed to her on the day before the Military Tattoo at Aidershot. Also everything he had said to her on the evening of the Tattoo. Terry’s patience wore thin.. At ten to four she was repeating, “Clive. Ido like you so much, at least, I should, if you would only realise it’s not any good asking me to marry you.” “I don’t see why. There’s absolutely no reason why we should not be very happy together. Do you imagine, Terry, that I’m too old for you?” “No, no. It isn’t a question of age—” “You’re so right. Age doesn’t really come into this at all. I could take more care of you, as a matter of fact, than any of these unreliable, inconsiderate younger men.” “I daresay, I daresay. But the fact, is, I don’t like you as much, Clive •” Ho took up, rather sharply. “You admit you do like somebody? I bet it is that fellow Lavery.” “Oh, well, if you must know, it is!” broke from Terry. In her then state of mind it was all she could do not to follow up this admission by bursting into tears. Her father’s old friend looked at her with disturbance, resentment, astonishment, on his lean, good-looking, tropically sunburnt face. “Do you mean to tell me, Terry, that you have got to care for this fellow and that he hasn't the grace to ask you to marry him?” “He has asked me. He’s asked me and I’ve refused him.” “Why, where is the sense in that?” Clive not unnaturally asked. “All this talk merely shows how run down, how overworked you are, how badly you need to be taken out of yourself, put in your proper place with some decent fellow to look after you. There's been quite enough of all this absurd rubbish you talk about not wanting to get married ” “Clive,” said Terry, very quietly, “If you say that once again, Clive, I am so afraid that I shall break down and scream aloud.” “Very well. then. I won’t say another word. But I do think there's been ■ quite enough of this ” “Very well, then. I won’t say another word. But Ido think there s been quite enough of this——" ' j Before Terry could open her mouth |to scream aloud—if she had been going to scream aloud —there was a ring of ' the bell, announcing that Eily Regan ! had arrived for tea, five minutes before ‘ her time.

She came in, new little blue hat pulled down over one large blue eye, limpling smile, gentle Irish voice, geneiai effect of oil on troubled waters.

Terry felt truly grateful to the girl for turning up at that moment. They had tea. After which Clive cut it short, early, saying that he would rmg up Terry again. “What a good-looking man,” said little Eily Regan after he’d gone. “Did I see orange-blossoms and wedding cake in his eye, Terry, or did I not?” “You did, my dear. Oh, you certainly did!” exclaimed Terry sinking down and holding out an empty cup for Eily to refill. “He’s one of these exhausting proposers.” “To think of that,” said Eily, when there’s many a nice young girl would be grateful for the chance of accepting

him. In his way he’s every bit as attractive as a beauty like Mr al Latractive as a beauty like Mr Vai Lavery —” Terry burst into tears.” “Terry! Darling! Whatever is the matter?” expostulated Eily. She fell on her knees before her friend. “Don’t cry like that. I can’t bear to see it!—” But already Terry was herself again. She had blown and powdered her nose, dried her eyes, smiled gallantly. “Rain’s stopped. Forget it, Eily. I was tired and —and —it gets me back,” she cried, “being proposed to by the wrong man.” “The wrong man —isn't that awful now,” sympathised the warm-hearted little Dublin girl. “Doesn’t that mean you’re breaking your heart for the right man.” “Well, it can’t be helped. It’ll all be the same a hundred years hence.” “But not now! Not now!”, exclaimed little Eily in distress. “Oh, if I were only able to do anything! I! That you gave her chance to that time when the casting-director was picking thirty extra ladies for ‘Venus Rises.’ I said then that if there was anything I could do, ever, Terry, I’ll light the longest candle I can buy that you may get anything you wish.”

After weeks of uncertainly, of hopes and fears, the play was now cast, and going into rehearsal. This meant that for nearly three weeks she was to see nothing of Vai. From morn till six o’clock when he would come off exhausted, he would be rehearsing at ths theatre this part in which she had always seen him. Curiously enough the part author of the play, Terry, expressed no wish to come to rehearsals. “My dear. You ought to see how it’s getting along.” “I’d rather not. It’s your play now, Vai,” she said “You’ve had far more of a hand in it than I.” “I may have done once. But —my dear good child, you’ve no idea. It’s anything but my play now, I assure you,” Vai Lavery told her ruefully. “It’s own parents wouldn't know it.” Terry looked anxious. “But Val, you do think it will be a success, don’t you?” He shrugged his shoulders. “If I stage a comeback it’ll be a redeal, a fresh start. If not, I'm thinking of going out to Canada, settling in that ranch that Jack didn’t make such a success of. Guy will pay the maters allowance. Madge’s husband will be on his feet. I shall have nothing to keep me in London, shall I?" Terry was looking hard out of the window over her desk in his Temple rooms. The September leaves, brown and shrivelling now, fluttered like her own heart. “Nothing to keep him in London"— he said that. She watched the leaves and did not see the mischevieus twinkle that for a moment made the eyes of this adult man into the eyes of a schoolboy. He said: “Six nights from now, Terry, will show up what’s going to happen. One thing, by the way, Ive ordered that jacket.” Yes. The little summer-ermine thing we arranged that you should wear.” She looked up indignantly. “Summer-ermine? How scandalously extravagant!" “It may be the last extravagance I can allow myself. In which case I’m that to the good. I’ve snaffled one last small present to try and show my gratitude.” It came at last, that fateful First Night. (To be Continued).