CHAPTER IX

SHOWING THAT IMITATION IS NOT ALWAYS THE SINCEREST FLATTERY, AND RETURNING TO THE MISADVENTURES OF BOBBY’S MOTHER

There was great headway made on the picture that day. Bernadette, already in love with Peggy, took Bobby into her affections too. Bobby and Peggy worked together like the clever and gifted pals they actually were. Even the “hams” caught the infection of joy, alertness and enthusiasm.

“Say, old man,” said Heneman, in an aside to Compton, “we’ve got something unusual here. Every man, woman and child in this picture is all right from the toes up to the top of the head. None of them are good just as far as the neck. We’re going to speed this thing up and have it out in two weeks. We can do it.”

“I never saw Peggy do so well before, and she always was a corking little actress,” commented Compton.

“It’s Bobby,” explained the director. “He’s got a diffusive sort of pep; it’s catching. I’ve got a great scene coming. When Bob gets to admiring Peggy—in the play, I mean—I’m going to have him show his admiration by imitation. The boy is a born imitator. Of course he’ll have to caricature it, especially her dancing. It’s going to be the very best sort of light comedy.”

“If imitation,” mused Compton, “is the beginning, middle and end of all acting, Bobby will be a star. Between times he’s taking off every carpenter, electrician or camera man around who happens to have any peculiarity.”

“I’d like to see him have a part where he could star,” said Heneman. “It isn’t work to train him. It’s fun.”

The days passed swiftly. Everybody concerned in the production was on edge to get it through. There were no hitches, no delays. Bobby and Peggy worked their parts into an importance undreamed of by the author of the scenario. There was but one unpleasant episode. It happened on the eighth day. A girl of fifteen enjoying a local reputation for calisthenics had been secured to give a short exhibition of her grace and skill. The young miss more than shared the good opinion of her admirers concerning her own ability, and made no secret of it. While awaiting her turn she watched the performers at work, with scarcely veiled contempt. Several of the actors gave her an opportunity to snub them, and in every case she embraced the opportunity.

“You don’t mean to say,” she observed to Peggy, “that they pay you for what you’re doing here.”

“They pay me every week.”

“That’s what you call easy money, isn’t it? And I suppose that little boy there gets paid, too. And all he does is just to be natural. Now, I’ve studied Delsarte for over five years, and fancy dancing for three; and when I appear, though it’s only for four or five minutes, I’m putting into my work the study of a lifetime.” Saying which, the young lady with elevated brows and haughty carriage turned away to seek some other person who ought to be snubbed. When it came to elevating brows and assuming a haughty carriage Bobby Vernon was unusually gifted, as he forthwith demonstrated to Peggy in a splendid caricature of the follower of Delsarte. The girl’s mother was on hand and observed Bobby’s private performance with strong disfavor. She did not like Bobby anyhow. It had become a personal matter with her that Bobby was drawing a higher salary than her own accomplished and superior child.

Presently the dear child performed her stunt. It was really good, good despite a certain superciliousness in the doing. Now Bobby could not help noticing this defect, and it was so easily imitated. He watched carefully for some time until he had got a fair idea of a few of the young miss’s simplest movements; then calling Peggy aside he gave, all things considered, a very good Delsarte exhibition, with a strong injection of the supercilious. Peggy’s sweet voice rang out in laughter which attracted several to the side-show; and Bobby, unconscious of the addition to his original audience of one, went on, gaining in force of caricature with each movement. It was when his nose was tiptilted to an unusual angle and his eyebrows raised as far as he could get them that the fond mother caught him by the hair and gave him, as she afterwards triumphantly declared, “a good wooling.” It took the major part of the spectators to separate the woman from her victim. However, Bobby got a good lesson. It dawned upon him that in “taking off” people he met he might give offense. From that day he became a little more careful. Mr. Compton too, his best friend, let him know that it served him right, although he did not express the opinion in terms so crude. Bobby apologized, and sealed the apology with a box of candy. The young miss, seeing herself as others saw her, received in turn a valuable lesson, with the result that on repeating her part she did it in a way that pleased everybody present, including Bobby himself.

Meditating on all this that afternoon, John Compton got a bright idea.

“Bobby,” he said, as they turned homewards, “for the next seven days I want you to give your evenings to reading while I work.”

“Work?”

“Yes. I’ve just got the idea for a scenario in which you will star. It’s a sure thing. As I see it now it will be something new and, if it goes through as I think, you’ll earn enough money to pay off everything your mother owes.”

“Great!” exclaimed the boy. “Say; you know of course I believe all right. But don’t you think God is taking His time about answering my prayers?”

“I thought you said that you left it all to Him,” remonstrated Compton.

“I do, I do. But I do so miss her, especially at night.”

No one knew this better than John Compton. When the boy’s thoughts were occupied by the day’s work and incidents, he was apparently care-free; but at night alone, as Compton could testify, his tears were frequent.

“Never mind, Bobby. I’m as sure as you that no real harm has befallen your mother. And we’re bound to find her. The detective agency I have put on the case is working hard. Be patient, my boy, and each day of her absence think that you are working for her.”

While the two were thus conversing the object of their talk was standing beside the ranchman’s wife. Like her child, love was the great force of Mrs. Vernon’s life. From the moment she entered the ranchman’s home, her heart went out to the frail, sweet woman upon whom the hand of death seemed to have set his seal. She saw at once that nothing but heroic, constant care and watching would avail. Day after day she gave herself devotedly to the task of fighting with death for the prize of a single life. She hardly slept, she ate little, but the very power of love that had nearly driven her to madness nerved her for an ordeal sublime in its self-sacrifice.

In those eight days a change had come over Barbara. She was thin, hollow-eyed, and a waxen pallor had come upon her face. The light lines of utmost weariness were stamped upon her features. But the chin was set, the mouth firm. The only relief to her constant vigils were the visits of the children. They were grateful beyond their years, and their gratitude manifested itself in little hourly attentions which only love could have devised. It was but natural that Barbara should return their affection, and she did so with interest. And in loving them she felt that she was vicariously spending her love upon her dear lost boy.

Upon this particular afternoon her haggard face, lovely even in its haggardness, was touched by a new expression—satisfaction. Clearly her invalid was better. Even as she gazed the doctor entered the room.

“Good day, Doctor Meehan,” she said, “I’m so glad you came. Don’t you notice a change?”

“Let me look,” responded the doctor, drawing close and peering into the invalid’s face.

“Halloa!” he exclaimed, and felt her pulse.

Jim Regan, the ranchman, with his two children, Agnes and Louis, had followed him into the room.

“By George, Regan!” said the doctor, straightening up and turning with a smile of relief upon the family, “this is no age of miracles. But we have a near-miracle here. Your wife is no longer ill; she’s convalescent. All she needs is rest and food and ordinary care. Barbara Vernon has, with her own hands, dragged her back from the grave. Halloa! What’s the matter?”

It was Mrs. Vernon who had drawn this question from the doctor. On hearing the glad news that brought tears and smiles of joy from the family, Barbara’s face flushed with a sense of relief, went pale again, and, the suspense over, she would have fallen had not the doctor caught her in his arms.

He placed her upon a lounge and made a hasty examination.

“I hope this is not a life for a life,” he said presently. “But the sick person of this house is not your wife, but Barbara Vernon. She’s in for a long siege, I fear.”

“Doctor,” said the ranchman, “if love or money can help her, I’ll not fail. Tell me what to do.”

“I like that sort of talk,” said the physician. “She needs a nurse badly, as badly as your wife needed one. Now, fortunately I have at my disposal the very nurse I would have had for your wife.”

“Can you send her, doctor?”

“I’ll have her here before nightfall, and she’ll bring the necessary medicines and directions as to the line of treatment I want carried out for Barbara, who has collapsed completely. Now mind, it isn’t altogether her care of your wife that has brought this on. If Barbara Vernon has not had some terrible nervous shock before you met her, you may tear up my diploma and put me to carrying a hod. Barbara is threatened with a serious nervous collapse. Put her to bed at once, and keep her there till further orders.”

“And what about my wife?” asked Regan.

“The simplest thing in the world. She hardly needs watching at all, and that jewel of a girl of yours, Agnes, can do all that’s needed to the queen’s taste.”

“Oh, I love to nurse,” said the girl. “I’ve watched dear Miss Barbara, and I’ve learned so much. I know I can do it.”

“I believe you, my girl,” said the doctor kindly. “In fact, I’m sure of you. Now your father and I will carry Barbara to her bedroom, and you will then care for her till our nurse comes. I’ll lose no time in getting her.”

So Barbara was put to bed, and many and many a week passed before she rose from it again.