V
These three weeks of rehearsal formed the happiest time Douglass hadever known, for all things conspired to make each day brim with mingledwork and worship. First of all, and above all, he was permitted to meetHelen each day, and for hours each day, without fear of gossip andwithout seeking for an excuse.
Each morning, a little before ten, he left his room and went directly tothe theatre to meet the company and the manager. The star, prompt as aclock, arrived soon after, and Douglass, beforehand, as a lover, wasalways there to help her from her carriage and to lead the way throughthe dark passage to the stage, where the pompous little Saunders wasforever marshalling his uneasy vassals in joyous exercise ofsovereignty.
Helen was happy as a child during these days, and glowing with new ideasof "business" and stage-setting. "We will spare no work and no expense,"she said, buoyantly, to Mr. Westervelt, her manager. "We have a dramaworthy of us. I want every one of Mr. Douglass's ideas carried out."
The manager did not know, as Douglass did, that some of the ideas wereher own, and so took a melancholy view of every innovation.
"You can't do that," he gloomily repeated. "The public won't stand fornew things. They want the old scenes rehashed. The public don't want tothink; it wants to laugh. This story is all right for a book, but won'tdo for a play. I don't see why you quit a good thing for a risk likethis. It is foolish and will lose money," he added, as a climax.
"Croak, you old raven--you'll be embarrassed when we fill yourmoney-box," she replied, gayly. "You should have an ideal, Mr.Westervelt."
"An ideal. What should I do with that?"
Like most men, Douglass knew nothing about gowns in their constituentparts, but he had a specially keen eye for the fitting and beautiful ina woman's toilet, and Helen was a constant delight to him because of thedistinction of her dresses. They were refined, yet not weaklyso--simple, yet always alluring. Under the influence of her optimism(and also because he did not wish to have her apologize for him) he drewon his slender bank-account for funds to provide himself with acarefully tailored suit of clothes and a new hat.
"How well you are looking!" she said, in soft aside, as he met her onemorning soon after. "Your hat is very becoming."
"I am made all over new _inside_--so I hastened to typify the changeexteriorly. I am rejoiced if you like me in my 'glad rags,'" hereplied.
"You are really splendid," she answered, with admiring fervor. "Let ushurry through to-day; I am tired and want a spin in the park."
"That is for you to say," he answered.
"You are never tired," she sighed. "I wish I had your endurance."
"It is the endurance of desperation. I am staking all I have on thisventure." Then, in low-toned intensity, he added: "It hurts me to haveyou forced to go over and over these lines because of the stupidity of abunch of cheap little people. Why don't you let me read your part?"
"That would not be fair," she answered, quickly--"neither to them nor toyou. No, I am an actress, and this is a part of my life. We are none ofus exempt from the universal curse."
"Royleston is our curse. Please let me kick him out the stage-door--heis an insufferable ass, and a bad actor besides."
"He is an ass, but he can act. No, it's too late to change him now.Wait; be patient. He'll pull up and surprise you at the finalrehearsal."
At four o'clock they were spinning up Fifth Avenue, which resounded withthe hoof-strokes of stately horses, and glittered with the light ofvarnished leather. The rehearsal was put far behind them. The day wasglorious November, and the air sparkling without being chill. A suddenexaltation seized Helen. "It certainly is a beautiful world--don't youthink so?" she asked.
"I do now; I didn't two weeks ago," he replied, soberly.
"What has brought the change?"
"You have." He looked at her steadily.
She chose to be evasive. "I had a friend some years ago who was in thedeeps of despair because no one would publish her book. Once she hadsecured the promise of a real publisher that he would take it she wasradiant. She thought the firm had been wondrously kind. They made thirtythousand dollars from the sale of her book. I am selfish--don't youthink I'm not--I'm going to make fame and lots of money on your play."
"I hope you may, for am I not to share in all your gold and glory? Ihave greater need of both than you. You already have all that mortalcould desire. I don't believe I've told you what I called you before Imet you--have I?"
"No; what was it?" Her eyes widened with interest.
"'The glittering woman.'"
She looked puzzled. "Why that?"
"Because of the glamour, the mystery, which surrounded your name."
"Even now I don't see."
He looked amused and cried out: "On my life, I believe you don't! Beingat the source of the light, you can't see it, of course. It's likewearing a crown of electric lamps--others see you as a dazzling thing;you are in the dark. It is my trade to use words to express my meaning,but I confess my hesitation in trying to make you see yourself as I sawyou. You were like a baleful, purple star, something monstrous yetbeautiful. Your fame filled the world and fell into my garret chamberlike a lurid sunrise. With your coming, mysterious posters bloomed andcrimson letters blazed on street-walls. Praiseful paragraphs appeared inthe newspapers, gowns and hats (named after you) and belt-buckles andshoes and cigarettes arranged themselves in the windows, each bearingyour name."
"What a load of tinsel for a poor little woman to carry around! How itmust have shocked you to find me so commonplace! None of us escape thecommon fates. It is always a surprise to me to discover how simple themen of great literary fame are. A friend of mine once spent a wholeevening with a great novelist without discovering who he was. She saidto him when she found him out, 'I couldn't believe that any one I couldmeet could be great.' Really, I hope you will forgive me for not beingas superhuman as my posters. It was the mystery of the unknown. If youknew all about me I would be entirely commonplace." She was moreconcerned about his opinion of her than she expressed in words. Hereagerness appeared in her voice.
"I found you infinitely more womanly than I had supposed, and simpler.Even yet I don't see how you can carry this oppressive weight ofadvertising glory and still be--what you are."
"You seem to hesitate to tell me what I am."
"I do," he gravely answered, and for a moment she sat in silence.
"There's one objection to your assisting at rehearsals," she said,irrelevantly. "You will lose all the intoxication of seeing your playfreshly bodied forth. It will be a poor, old, ragged story for you atthe end of the three weeks."
"I've thought of that; but there are other compensations."
"You mean the pleasure of having the work go right--"
"Yes, partly that--partly the suggestion that comes from a daily studyof it."
But the greatest compensation of all--the joy in her dailycompanionship--he did not have the courage to mention, and though shedivined other and deeper emotions she, too, was silent.
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 5
