XV
As the opening night of _Enid's Choice_ drew near, Douglass sufferedgreater anxiety but experienced far less of nervous excitement thanbefore. He was shaking rather than tense of limb, and did not find itnecessary to walk the streets to calm his physical excitement. He wasdepressed by the knowledge that a second defeat would leave him notmerely discredited but practically penniless. Nevertheless, he did nothide; on the contrary, he took a seat in one of the boxes.
The audience he at once perceived was of totally different character andtemper from that which greeted _Lillian_. It was quiet and moderate insize, rather less than the capacity of the orchestra seats, for Helenhad asked that no "paper" be distributed. Very few were in the gallery,and those who were had the quietly expectant air of students. Only threeof the boxes were occupied. The fashionables were entirely absent.
Plainly these people were in their seats out of interest in the play orbecause of the known power of the actress. They were not flushed withwine nor heavy with late dinners.
The critics were out again in force, and this gave the young author alittle satisfaction, for their presence was indisputable evidence of theinterest excited by the literary value of his work. "I have made again," he said, grimly. "Such men do not go gunning for small deer." Butthat they were after blood was shown by the sardonic grins with whichthey greeted one another as they strolled in at the door or met in theaisles. They expected another "killing," and were resolute to bethorough.
From the friendly shelter of the curtain Douglass could study the housewithout being seen, and a little glow of fire warmed his heart as herecognized five or six of the best-known literary men of the city seatedwell down towards the front, and the fifteen minutes' wait before theorchestra leader took his seat was rendered less painful by his pride inthe really high character of his audience; but when the music blaredforth and the curtain began to rise, his blood chilled with a return ofthe fear and doubt which had assailed him at the opening of _Lillian'sDuty_. "It is impossible that I should succeed," was his thought.
However, his high expectation of pleasure from the performance cameback, for he had resolutely kept away from even the dress rehearsal, andthe entire creative force of his lines was about to come to him. "In afew moments my characters will step forth from the world of thedisembodied into the mellow glow of the foot-lights," he thought, andthe anticipated joy of welcoming them warmed his brain and the chillclutch of fear fell away from his throat. The dignity and the glow, thepossibilities of the theatre as a temple of literature came to him withalmost humbling force.
He knew that Hugh and the actors had worked night and day towards thisevent--not for him (he realized how little they cared for him), but forHelen. She, dear girl, thought of everybody, and forgot herself in theevent. That Westervelt and Hugh had no confidence in the play, evenafter dress rehearsal, and that they had ignored him as he came into thetheatre he knew, but he put these slights aside. Westervelt was busyincessantly explaining to his intimates and to the critics that he nolonger shared in Merival's "grazy schemes. She guarantees me, orderwiseI would glose my theatre," he said, with wheezy reiteration.
The first scene opened brilliantly in the home of Calvin Wentworth, amillionaire mine-owner. Into the garish and vulgarly ostentatiousreception-room a pale, sweet slip of a girl drifted, with big eyesshining with joy of her home-coming. Some of the auditors again failedto recognize the great actress, so wonderful was her transformation inlook and manner. The critics themselves, dazed for a moment, led in thecheer which rose. This warmed the house to a genial glow, and the playstarted with spirit.
Helen, deeply relieved to see Douglass in the box, advanced towards him,and their eyes met for an instant in a lovers' greeting. Again thatsubtle interchange of fire took place. She looked marvellously young andlight-hearted; it was hard to believe that she was worn with work andweakened by anxiety. Her eyes were bright and her hands like lilies.
The act closed with a very novel piece of business and some very unusuallines passing between _Enid_ and _Sidney_, her lover. Towards thispassage Douglass now leaned, uplifted by a sense of power, exulting inHelen's discernment, which had enabled her to realize, almost perfectly,his principal characters. He had not begun to perceive and suffer fromthe shortcomings of her support; but when _Enid_ left the stage for afew minutes, the fumbling of the subordinate actors stung and irritatedhim. They had the wrong accent, they roared where they should have beenstrong and quiet, and the man who played _Sidney_ stuttered and drawled,utterly unlike the character of the play.
"Oh, the wooden ass!" groaned Douglass. "He'll ruin the piece." Aburning rage swept over him. So much depended on this performance, andnow--"I should have directed the rehearsals. I was a fool to neglectthem. Why does she keep the sot?" And part of his anger flowed outtowards the star.
Helen, returning, restored the illusion, so complete was her assumptionof the part, and the current set swiftly towards that unparalleledending, those deeply significant lines which had come to the author onlylate in the week, but which formed, indeed, the very key to _Sidney's_character--they were his chief enthusiasm in this act, suggesting, asthey did, so much. Tingling, aching with pleasurable suspense, theauthor waited.
The curtain fell on a totally different effect--with _Sidney_ readingutterly different lines!
For a moment the author sat stunned, unable to comprehend what hadhappened. At last the revelation came. "They have failed to incorporatethe changes I made. They have gone back to the weak, trashy ending whichI discarded. They have ruined the scene utterly!" and, looking at two ofthe chief critics, he caught them in the act of laughing evilly, even asthey applauded.
With face set in rage, he made his way back of the curtain towardsHelen's room. She met him at the door, her face shining with joy. "It'sgoing! It's going!" she cried out, gleefully.
His reply was like a blow in the face. "Why didn't you incorporate thatnew ending of the act?" he asked, with bitter harshness.
Helen staggered, and her hands rose as if to shield herself fromviolence. She stammered, "I--I--I--couldn't. You see, the lines came solate. They would have thrown us all out. I will do so to-morrow," sheadded.
"To-morrow!" he answered, through his set teeth. "Why to-morrow?To-night is the time. Don't you see I'm staking my reputation onto-night? To-night we win or lose. The house is full of critics. Theywill write of what we do, not of what we are _going_ to do." He began topace up and down, trembling with disappointment and fury. He turnedsuddenly. "How about the second act? Did you make those changes in_Sidney's_ lines? I infer not," he added, with a sneer.
Helen spoke with difficulty, her bosom heaving, her eyes fixed in wonderand pain on his face. "No. How could I? You brought them only yesterdaymorning; they would have endangered the whole act." Then, as theindignity, the injustice, the burning shame of his assault forcedthemselves into her mind, she flamed out in reproach: "Why did you comeback here at all? Why didn't you stay away, as you did before? You arecruel, heartless!" The tears dimmed her eyes. "You've ruined my wholeperformance. You've broken my heart. Have you no soul--no sense ofhonor? Go away! I hate you! I'll never speak to you again! I hate you!"And she turned, leaving him dumb and staring, in partial realization ofhis selfish, brutal demands.
Hugh approached him with lowering brows and clinched hands. "You've doneit now. You've broken her nerve, and she'll fail in her part. Haven'tyou any sense? We pick you off the street and feed you and clotheyou--and do your miserable plays--and you rush in here and strike mysister, Helen Merival, in the face. I ought to kick you into thestreet!"
Douglass stood through this like a man whose brain is benumbed by thecrashing echoes of a thunderbolt, hardly aware of the fury of thespeaker, but this final threat cleared his mind and stung him intoreply.
"You are at liberty to try that," he answered, and an answering ferocityshone in his eyes. "I gave you this play; it's good work, and, properlydone, would succeed. Ruin it if you want to. I am done with it and you."
/> "Thank God!" exclaimed the brother, as the playwright turned away. "Goodriddance to a costly acquaintance."
Hardly had the street door clapped behind the blinded author when Helen,white and agitated, reappeared, breathlessly asking, "Where is he; hashe gone?"
"Yes; I am glad to say he has."
"Call him back--quick! Don't let him go away angry. I must see himagain! Go, bring him back!"
Hugh took her by the arm. "What do you intend to do--give him anotherchance to insult you? He isn't worth another thought from you. Let himgo, and his plays with him."
The orchestra, roaring on its _finale_, ended with a crash. Hugh liftedhis hand in warning. "There goes the curtain, Helen. Go on. Don't lethim kill your performance. Go on!" And he took her by the arm.
The training as well as the spirit and quality of the actress reassertedtheir dominion, and as she walked out upon the stage not even thesearching glare of the foot-lights could reveal the cold shadow whichlay about her heart.
When the curtain fell on the final "picture" she fairly collapsed,refusing to take the curtain call which a goodly number of her auditorsinsisted upon. "I'm too tired," she made answer to Hugh. "Tooheart-sick," she admitted to herself, for Douglass was gone with angrylights in his eyes, bearing bitter and accusing words in his ears. Thetemple of amusement was at the moment a place of sorrow, of despair.
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 15
