experience, Shirley had never heard such an enthusiastic response to a play. Even she had forgotten her concern for her patient during the final moments of the act. Now she thought of her responsibility and pushed her way through the crowds to the side exit and backstage.
She found the old star in his dressing room repairing his make-up. He was perspiring, but his face wore a happy smile. "No worries, my dear," he greeted her. "I'm feeling quite well."
His grandson stood by him, and he acknowledged Shirley's entrance with a slight nod. Then he said to his grandfather, "I'll be back again next intermission." With a second nod to Shirley, he left.
"He's a little nervous of you." Oliver Craft chuckled.
Shirley dropped two white tablets in a half-glass of water and passed it to him. "This will help your second act."
The old man drank the liquid without a question. Then he said: "You should be onstage with us at the final curtain. Part of our success is due to you. Without your good care, I wouldn't be fit to play my part tonight."
"You still have two acts to go," she teased.
"I'm not worried," he said, adjusting his Cardinal's cap.
Watching him, Shirley thought how right the part was for the old actor. He had the gaunt, saintly air of a venerable churchman. Surely the playwright must have had him in mind when he wrote the role.
The second act built up steadily and ended on another high note of drama, which brought a repeat of the first-act thunder of applause. Lyon Phillips was standing by the set when Shirley came back this time.
"I didn't think he'd ever be this good again," he told her, his eyes shining.
"I hope he's able to keep it up."
"That applause is all he needs for his bloodstream," Phillips said, looking toward the front curtain. "They love him."
"I know." Shirley started toward the corridor.
"Are you going to the party at the hotel?" Lyon called after her.
"I haven't decided," Shirley said over her shoulder.
"Better do it now," Hugh Deering said in his easy, friendly voice, taking her by both bare shoulders.
She stopped still and, blushing, waited for him to let her go. He did so in a second.
"We'll need some pretty girls there tonight," he said, smiling. "And you are a pretty girl, you know."
He looked so handsome in his military uniform, his hair grayed a bit more at the temples, his eyes accentuated by make-up, that she found it difficult to answer him for a moment. "You're giving a fine performance," she said. "Everyone is."
"Pleasant words," he told her. "But there are others I'd rather hear. Such as your saying 'yes' to my question about the party."
"I'll think it over," she promised with a faint smile. "I'd better get in to the Chief. He may need me." She hurried on.
When she went in this time, Oliver Craft was bent forward on the make-up counter, his hands at his temples, his eyes closed as if in meditation.
Shirley went up to him slowly. "Are you all right, Mr. Craft?"
He nodded and then, leaning back, opened his eyes. He spoke in a low voice. "Just now… a little cramp in my left side. Quite severe. But it seems to have passed."
Alarmed, she said, "I can call Dr. Trask. He's near the front of the house."
"No, no!" He raised a hand in protest. "A thing like that could ruin the play. Word would go through the house like wildfire. After that, they'd be watching me and not the Cardinal. The mood would be lost."
Shirley searched quickly and found a small vial of blue pellets that Dr. Trask had given her to use in case of the old man having sudden pain. "This will help, I'm sure," she said.
He took one of the pills and she saw that his hand trembled slightly. "Don't mention this to any of the others," he warned her.
She nodded, handing him another small glass of water. Watching as he took the tiny pill, she knew that this secret conspiracy between them was going to be a permanent thing—a conspiracy against pain from which all the rest of the company would be shut out. She wondered if
She found the old star in his dressing room repairing his make-up. He was perspiring, but his face wore a happy smile. "No worries, my dear," he greeted her. "I'm feeling quite well."
His grandson stood by him, and he acknowledged Shirley's entrance with a slight nod. Then he said to his grandfather, "I'll be back again next intermission." With a second nod to Shirley, he left.
"He's a little nervous of you." Oliver Craft chuckled.
Shirley dropped two white tablets in a half-glass of water and passed it to him. "This will help your second act."
The old man drank the liquid without a question. Then he said: "You should be onstage with us at the final curtain. Part of our success is due to you. Without your good care, I wouldn't be fit to play my part tonight."
"You still have two acts to go," she teased.
"I'm not worried," he said, adjusting his Cardinal's cap.
Watching him, Shirley thought how right the part was for the old actor. He had the gaunt, saintly air of a venerable churchman. Surely the playwright must have had him in mind when he wrote the role.
The second act built up steadily and ended on another high note of drama, which brought a repeat of the first-act thunder of applause. Lyon Phillips was standing by the set when Shirley came back this time.
"I didn't think he'd ever be this good again," he told her, his eyes shining.
"I hope he's able to keep it up."
"That applause is all he needs for his bloodstream," Phillips said, looking toward the front curtain. "They love him."
"I know." Shirley started toward the corridor.
"Are you going to the party at the hotel?" Lyon called after her.
"I haven't decided," Shirley said over her shoulder.
"Better do it now," Hugh Deering said in his easy, friendly voice, taking her by both bare shoulders.
She stopped still and, blushing, waited for him to let her go. He did so in a second.
"We'll need some pretty girls there tonight," he said, smiling. "And you are a pretty girl, you know."
He looked so handsome in his military uniform, his hair grayed a bit more at the temples, his eyes accentuated by make-up, that she found it difficult to answer him for a moment. "You're giving a fine performance," she said. "Everyone is."
"Pleasant words," he told her. "But there are others I'd rather hear. Such as your saying 'yes' to my question about the party."
"I'll think it over," she promised with a faint smile. "I'd better get in to the Chief. He may need me." She hurried on.
When she went in this time, Oliver Craft was bent forward on the make-up counter, his hands at his temples, his eyes closed as if in meditation.
Shirley went up to him slowly. "Are you all right, Mr. Craft?"
He nodded and then, leaning back, opened his eyes. He spoke in a low voice. "Just now… a little cramp in my left side. Quite severe. But it seems to have passed."
Alarmed, she said, "I can call Dr. Trask. He's near the front of the house."
"No, no!" He raised a hand in protest. "A thing like that could ruin the play. Word would go through the house like wildfire. After that, they'd be watching me and not the Cardinal. The mood would be lost."
Shirley searched quickly and found a small vial of blue pellets that Dr. Trask had given her to use in case of the old man having sudden pain. "This will help, I'm sure," she said.
He took one of the pills and she saw that his hand trembled slightly. "Don't mention this to any of the others," he warned her.
She nodded, handing him another small glass of water. Watching as he took the tiny pill, she knew that this secret conspiracy between them was going to be a permanent thing—a conspiracy against pain from which all the rest of the company would be shut out. She wondered if
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