XIX
Helen insisted that her playwright should go back to the West for amonth's rest.
"I do not need rest, I need you," he answered, recklessly. "It fills mewith content merely to see you."
"Nevertheless, you must go. We don't need you here. And, besides, youinterfere with my plans."
"Is that true?" His eyes searched deep as he questioned.
"I am speaking as the actress to the playwright." She pointed tragicallyto the door. "Go! Your poor old, lonely mother awaits you."
"There are six in the family; she's my stepmother, and we don't get onsmoothly."
"Your father is waiting to congratulate you."
"On the contrary. He thinks actresses and playwrights akin to 'popery.'"
She laughed. "Well, then, go on my account--on your account. You aretired, and so am I--"
"That is why I should remain, to relieve you, to help you. Or, do youmean you're tired of me?"
"I won't say that; but I must not see you. I must not see any one. If Ido this big part right, I must rest. I intend to sleep a good part ofthe time. I have sent for Henry Olquest, and I intend to put the wholeof the stage end of this play in his hands. Our ideals are not concernedin this _Alessandra_, you remember."
His face clouded. "That is true. I wish it were otherwise. But can youget Olquest?"
"Yes; his new play has failed. 'Too good,' Westervelt said."
"Oh, what blasphemy! To think Harry Olquest's plays are rejected, and onsuch grounds! You are right--as always. I will go."
"Thank you!"
"I am a little frazled, I admit, and a breath of mountain-air will do megood. I will visit my brother Walt in Darien. It's hard to go. My heartbegins to ache already with prospective hunger. You have been my world,my one ambition for three months--my incessant care and thought."
"All the more reason why you should forget me and things dramatic for awhile. There is nothing so destructive to peace and tranquillity as thestage."
"Don't I know that? When I was a youth in a Western village I became insome way the possessor of two small photographs of Elsie Melville. Shewas my ideal till I saw her, fifteen years later."
Helen laughed. "Poor Elsie, she took on flesh dreadfully in her lateryears."
"Nevertheless, those photographs started me on the road to the stage. Iused to fancy myself as Macbeth, but I soon got switched into the beliefthat I could write plays. Now that I have demonstrated that"--his tonewas a little bitter again--"I think I would better return toarchitecture."
She silenced him. "All that we will discuss when you come backreinvigorated from the mountains." She turned to her desk. "I havesomething here for you. Here is a small check from Westervelt onaccount. Don't hesitate to take it. He was glad to give it."
"It is the price of my intellectual honesty."
"By no means!" She laughed, but her heart sickened with a sense of thetruth of his phrase. "It's only a very small part payment. You can atleast know that the bribe they offer is large."
"Yes"--he looked at her meaningly--"the prize was too great for my poorresolution. All they can give will remain _part_ payment. I wonder ifyou will be compassionate enough to complete the purchase--"
"_That_, too, is in the future," she answered, still struggling to begayly reassuring, though she knew, perfectly well, that she was face toface with a most momentous decision and that an insistent, determinedlover was about to be restored to confidence and pride. "And now,good-bye." And she gave him her hand in positive dismissal.
He took the hand and pressed it hard, then turned and went away withoutspeaking.
* * * * *
There was a hint of spring in the air the afternoon of his leaving. Thewind came from the southwest, brisk and powerful. In the pale, mistyblue of the sky a fleet of small, white clouds swam, like ships withwide and bellying sails, low down in the eastern horizon, and the sightof them somehow made it harder for Douglass to leave the city of hisadoption. He was powerfully minded to turn back, to remain on theferry-boat and land again on the towering island so heavily freightedwith human sorrows, so brilliant with human joys, and only a realizationthat his presence might trouble and distract Helen kept him to hisjourney's westward course.
As he looked back at the monstrous hive of men the wonder of Helen'spersonality came to him. That she alone, and unaided (save by her owninborn genius and her beauty), should have succeeded in becomingdistinguished, even regnant, among so many eager and striving souls,overwhelmed him with love and admiration.
He wondered how he could have assumed even for an instant the tone of alover, the gesture of a master. "I, a poor, restless, penniless vagabondon the face of the earth--I presumed to complain of her!" he exclaimed,and shuddered with guilty disgust at thought of that night behind thescenes.
In this mood he rode out into the West, which was bleak with winterwinds and piled high with snow. He paused but a day with his father,whom he found busy prolonging the lives of the old people with whom thetown was filled. It was always a shock to the son, this contrast betweenthe outward peace and well-seeming of his native town and the innermortality and swift decay. Even in a day's visit he felt the grimdestroyer's presence, palpable as the shadow of a cloud.
He hastened on to Darien, that curious mixture of Spanish-Mexicanindolence and bustling American enterprise, a town wherein his brotherWalt had established himself some years before.
Walter Douglass was shocked by the change in his brother. "I can'tunderstand how fourteen months in New York can reduce a lusty youth tothe color of a cabbage and the consistency of a gelatine pudding. Ireckon you'd better key yourself down to my pace for a while. Look atme!"
The playwright smiled. "I haven't indulged myself too much. You can'thit a very high pace on twelve dollars a week."
"Oh, I don't know. There are cheap brands of whiskey; and you canbreathe the bad air of a theatre every night if you climb high enough. Iknow you've been too strenuous at some point. Now, what's the meaning ofit all?"
"I've been working very hard."
"Shouldn't do it. Look at me. I never work and never worry. I play. Iweigh two hundred pounds, eat well, sleep like a doorknob, make aboutthree thousand dollars a year, and educate my children. I don't want toseem conceited, but my way of life appeals to me as philosophic; yoursis too wasteful. Come, now, you're keeping back something. You might aswell 'fess up. What _were_ you doing?"
The playwright remained on his guard. "Well, as I wrote you, I had acouple of plays accepted and helped to produce them. There's nothingmore wearing than producing a play. The anxiety is killing."
"I believe you. I think the writing of one act would finish me. Yes, Ican see that would be exciting business; but what's all this about yourengagement to some big actress?"
This brought the blood to the younger man's cheek, but he was studiedlycareless in reply. "All newspaper talk. Of course, in rehearsing theplay, I saw a great deal of Miss Merival, but--that's all. She is one ofthe most successful and brilliant women on the stage, while I--well, Iam only a 'writing architect,' earning my board by doing a littledramatic criticism now and then. You need not put any other two thingstogether to know how foolish such reports are."
Walt seemed satisfied. "Well, my advice is: slow down to Darien time.Eat and sleep, and ride a bronco to make you eat more and sleep harder,and in two weeks you'll be like your old-time self."
This advice, so obviously sound, was hard to follow, for each daybrought a letter from Helen, studiously brief and very sparing of anyterms of affection--frank, good letters, kindly but no more--and youngDouglass was dissatisfied, and said so. He spent a large part of eachmorning pouring out upon paper the thoughts and feelings surging withinhim. He told her of the town, of the delicious, crisp climate--likeOctober in the East--of the great snow-peaks to the West, of his ridesfar out on the plain, of his plans for the coming year.
"I dug an old play out of my trunk to-day" (he wrote, towards the end ofthe firs
t week). "It's the first one I ever attempted. It is veryboyish. I had no problems in my mind then, but it is worth while. I amgoing to rewrite it and send it on to you, for I can't be idle. Ibelieve you'll like it. It is a love drama pure and simple."
To this she replied: "I am interested in what you say of your firstplay, but don't work--rest and enjoy your vacation."
A few days later he wrote, in exultation: "I got a grip on the playyesterday and re-wrote two whole acts. I think I've put some of theglory of this land and sky into it--I mean the exultation of health andyouth. I am putting you into it, too--I mean the adoration I feel foryou, my queen!
"Do you know, all the old wonder of you is coming back to me. When Ithink of you as the great actress my nerves are shaken. Is it possiblethat the mysterious Helen Merival is my Helen? I am mad to rush back toyou to prove it. Isn't it presumptuous of me to say, 'My Helen'? But atthis distance you cannot reprove me. I came across some pictures of youin a magazine to-day, and was thrilled and awed by them. I have not saidanything of Helen MacDavitt to my people, but of the good and greatactress Helen Merival I speak copiously. They all feel very grateful toyou for helping me. Father thinks you at least forty. He could notunderstand how a woman under thirty could rise to such eminence as youhave attained. Walt also takes it for granted you are middle-aged. Heknows how long the various 'Maggies' and 'Ethels' and 'Annies' have beenin public life. He saw something in a paper about us the other day, buttook it as a joke. If this fourth play of mine comes off, and you findit worth producing, I shall be happy. It might counteract the balefulinfluence of _Alessandra_. I began to wonder how I ever did such amelodrama. Is it as bad as it seems to me now?...
"I daren't ask how _Enid_ is doing. It makes me turn cold to think ofthe money you are losing. Wouldn't it pay to let the theatre go 'dark'till the new thing is ready?...
"I am amazed at my temerity with you, serene lady. If I had not beenfilled with the colossal conceit of the young author, I never would havedared to approach--What I did during those mad weeks (you know the onesI mean) gives me such shame and suffering as I have never known, and mywhole life is now ordered to make you forget that side of my character.I ask myself now, 'What would Helen have me do?' I don't say this humblemood will last. If _Alessandra_ should make a 'barrel of money,' I amcapable of soaring to such heights of audacity that you will bestartled."
To this she replied: "I am not working at rehearsal more than isnecessary. Mr. Olquest is a jewel. He has taken the whole burden of thestage direction off my hands. I lie in bed till noon each morning and gofor a drive each pleasant afternoon. Our spring weather is gone. Winterhas returned upon us again.... I miss you very much. For all the worryyou gave us, we found entertainment in you. Don't trouble about themoney we are losing. Westervelt is putting up all the cash for the newproduction and is angelic of manner--or means to be. I prefer him whenin the dumps. He attends every rehearsal and is greatly excited over mypart. He now thinks you great, and calls you 'the American Sardou.' ...I have put all our dismal hours behind me. 'All this, too, shall passaway.' ... I care not to what audacity you wing your way, if only youcome back to us your good, sane, undaunted self once more."
In this letter, as in all her intercourse with him, there was restraint,as though love were being counselled by prudence. And this was, indeed,the case. A foreboding of all that an acknowledgment of a man'sdomination might mean to her troubled Helen. The question, "How wouldmarriage affect my plans," beset her, though she tried to thrust itaway, to retire it to the indefinite future.
Her love grew steadily, feeding upon his letters, which became each daymore buoyant and manly, bringing to her again the sense of unboundedambition and sane power with which his presence had filled her at theirfirst meeting.
"You are not of the city," she wrote. "You belong to the country. Thinkhow near New York came to destroying you. You ought not to come back.Why don't you settle out there and take up public life?"
His answer was definite: "You need not fear. The city will never againdominate me. I have found myself--through you. With you to inspire me Icannot fail. Public life! Do you mean politics? I am now fit for onlyone thing--to write. I have found my work. And do you think I could liveanywhere without hope of seeing you? My whole life is directed towardsyou--to be worthy of you, to be justified in asking you to join yourlife to mine. These are my ambitions, my audacious desires. I love you,and you must know that I cannot be content with your friendship--youraffection--which I know I have. I want your love in return. Not now--notwhile I am a man of words merely. As I now feel _Alessandra_ is a littlething compared with the sacrifice you have made for me. I have strippedaway all my foolish egotism, and when I return to see you on the openingnight I shall rejoice in your success without a tinge of bitterness. Itisn't as if the melodrama were degrading in its appeal. It does notrepresent my literary ideals, of course, but it is not contemptible, itis merely conventional. My mind _has_ cleared since I came here. I seemyself in proper relation to you and to the public. I see now that withthe large theatre, with the long 'run' ideals, a play _must_ be verygeneral in its appeal, and with such conditions it is folly for us toquarrel. We must have our own little theatre wherein we can play thesubtler phases of American life--the phases we both rejoice in. If_Alessandra_ should pay my debt to you--- you see how my mind comes backto that thought--we will use it to build our own temple of art. As Ithink of you there, toiling without me, I am wild with desire to returnto be doing something. I am ready now to turn my hand to any humblething--to direct rehearsals, to design costumes, anything, only to benear you. One word from you and I will come."
To this she replied: "No; on the contrary, you must stay a week longer.We have postponed the production on account of some extra scenic effectwhich Hugh wishes to perfect. They profess wonder now at your knowledgeof scenic effect as well as your eye for costume and stage-setting. Yourlast letter disturbed me greatly, while it pleased me. I liked its toneof boyish enthusiasm, but your directness of speech scared me. I'malmost afraid to meet you. You men are so literal, so insistent in yourdemands. A woman doesn't know what she wants--sometimes; she doesn'tlike to be brought to bay so roundly. You have put so much at stake on_Alessandra_ that I am a-tremble with fear of consequences. If itsucceeds you will be insufferably conceited and assured; if it fails wewill never see you again. Truly the life of a star is not all glitter."
This letter threw him into a panic. He hastened to disclaim any wish todisturb her. "If you will forgive me this time I will not offend again.I did not mean to press for an answer. I distinctly said that atpresent I have no right to do so. I daren't do so, in fact. I send you,under another cover, the youthful play which I call _The Morning_. Isn'tthat fanciful enough? It means, of course, that I am now just reachingthe point in my life where the man of thirty-odd looks back upon the boyof eighteen with a wistful tenderness, feeling that the mystery of theworld has in some sense departed with the morning. Of a certainty thisidea is not new, but I took a joy in writing this little idyl, and Iwould like to see you do 'the wonderful lady I see in my dreams.' Canyou find an actor who can do my lad of 'the poetic fancy'?"
She replied to this: "Your play made me cry, for I, too, am leaving thedewy morning behind. I like this play; it is very tender and beautiful,and do you know I believe it would touch more hearts than your gorgeousmelodrama. Mr. Howells somewhere beautifully says that when he is mostintimate in the disclosures of his own feelings he finds himself mostwidely responded to--or something like that. I really am eager to dothis play. It has increased my wonder of your powers. I really begin tofeel that I know only part of you. First _Lillian's Duty_ taught me someof your stern Scotch morality. Then _Enid's Choice_ revealed to me yourconception of the integrity of a good woman's soul--that nothing candebase it. _Alessandra_ disclosed your learning and your imaginativepower. Now here I feel the poet, the imaginative boy. I will not saythis has increased my faith in you--it has added to my knowledge of you.But I must confess to you it has made it very
difficult for me to go onwith _Alessandra_. All the other plays are in line of a national drama._Alessandra_ is a bitter and ironical concession. _The Morning_ makesits splendor almost tawdry. It hurt me to go to rehearsal to-day.Westervelt's presence was a gloating presence, and I hated him. Hugh'sreport of the exultant 'I told you so's' of the dramatic criticssickened me--" Her letter ended abruptly, almost at this point.
His reply contained these words: "It is not singular that you feelirritated by _Alessandra_ while I am growing resigned, for you are indaily contact with the sordid business. Tell me I may come back. I wantto be at the opening. I know you will secure a great personal triumph. Iwant to see you shining again amid a shower of roses. I want to helptake your horses from your carriage, and wheel you in glory through thestreets as they used to do in olden times as tribute to their greatfavorites. I haven't seen a New York paper since I came West. I hope youhave put _Enid_ away. What is the use wearing yourself out playing adisastrous role while forced to rehearse a new one? My longing to seeyou is so great that the sight of your picture on my desk is a sweettorture. Write me that you want me, dearest."
She replied, very simply: "You may come. Our opening night is now fixedfor Monday next. You will have just time to get here. All is well."
To this he wired reply: "I start to-night. Arrive on Monday at GrandCentral. Eleven-thirty."
* * * * *
Helen was waiting for him at the gate of the station in a beautifulspring hat, her face abloom, her eyes dancing, and the sight of herrobbed him of all caution. Dropping his valise, he rushed towards her,intent to take her in his arms.
She stopped him with one outstretched hand. "How well you look!" Hervoice, so rich, so vibrant, moved him like song.
"And you--you are the embodiment of spring." Then, in a low voice, closeto her ear, he added: "I love you! I love you! How beautiful you are!"
"Hush!" She lifted a finger in a gesture of warning. "You must not saysuch things to me--here." With the addition of that final word her facegrew arch. Then in a louder tone: "I was right, was I not, to send youaway?"
"I am a new being," he answered, "morally and physically. But tell me,what is the meaning of these notices? Have you put _The Morning_ on inplace of _Alessandra_?"
Hugh interposed. "That's what she's done," and offered his hand withunexpected cordiality.
"You take my breath away," said Douglass. "I can't follow your recklesscampaigns."
"We'll explain. We're not as reckless as we seem."
They began to move towards the street, Hugh leading the way with theplaywright's bag.
Helen laughed at her lover's perplexity and dismay. "You lookbefoozled."
"I am. I can't understand. After all that work and expense--after all mytoilsome grind--my sacrifice of principles."
She was close to his shoulder as she said, looking up at him withbeaming, tender eyes:
"That's just it. I couldn't accept your offering. After _The Morning_came in, my soul revolted. I ordered the _Alessandra_ manuscript broughtin. Do you know what I did with it?"
"Rewrote it, I hope."
Her face expressed daring, humor, triumph, but the hand lifted to thechin expressed a little apprehension as she replied: "Rewrote it? No, Ididn't think of that. _I burned it._"
He stopped, unconscious of the streaming crowds. "Burned it! I can'tbelieve you. My greatest work--"
"It is gone." The smile died out of her eyes, her face became very graveand very sweet. "I couldn't bear to have you bow your head to please apublic not worthy of you. The play was un-American, and should not havebeen written by you."
He was dazed by the enormous consequences of this action, and his mindflashed from point to point before he answered, in a single word:"Westervelt."
Thereat they both laughed, and she explained. "It was dreadful. Heraged, he shook the whole block as he trotted to and fro tearing hishair. I think he wished to tear my hair. He really resembled the elderSalvini as Othello--you know the scene I mean. I gave him a check tocompensate him. He tore it up and blew it into the air with a curse. Oh,it was beautiful comedy. I told him our interview would make a hit as a'turn' on the vaudeville stage. Nothing could calm him. I was firm, and_Alessandra_ was in ashes."
They moved on out upon the walk and into the hideous clamor ofForty-second Street, his mind still busy with the significance of hernews. Henry Olquest in an auto sat waiting for them. After a quickhand-shake Douglass lifted Helen to her place, followed her with a leap,and they were off on a ride which represented to him more than anassociation with success--it seemed a triumphal progress. Something inHelen's eyes exalted him, filled his throat with an emotion nigh totears. His eyes were indeed smarting as she turned to say: "You are justin time for dress rehearsal. Do you want to see it?"
"No, I leave it all to you. I want to be the author if I can. I want toget the thrill."
"I think you will like our production. Mr. Olquest has done marvels withit. You'll enjoy it; I know you will. It will restore your lost youth toyou."
"I hope it will restore some of your lost dollars. I saw by the papersthat you were still struggling with _Enid_. I shudder to think what thatmeans. The other poor little play will never be able to lift that hugedebt."
"I'm not so sure about that," she gayly answered. "The rehearsals havealmost resigned"--she pointed at Hugh's back--"him to the change."
"I confess I was surprised by his cordial greeting."
"Oh, he's quite shifted his point of view. He thinks _The Morning_ may'catch 'em' on other grounds."
"And you--you are radiant. I expected to find you worn out. You dazzleme."
"You mustn't look at me then. Look at the avenue. Isn't it fine thismorning?"
He took her hint. "It is glorious. I feel that I am again at the centreof things. After all, this is our one great city, the only place wherelife is diverse enough to give the dramatist his material. I begin tounderstand the attitude of actors when they land from the ferry-boat,draw a long breath, and say, 'Thank God, I'm in New York again.'"
"It's the only city in America where an artist can be judged by hispeers. I suppose that is one reason why we love it."
"Yes, it's worth conquering, and I'll make my mark upon it yet," and histone was a note of self-mastery as well as of resolution. "It is a cityset on a hill. To take it brings great glory and lasting honor."
She smiled up at him again, a proud light in her eyes. "Now you areyour good, rugged self, the man who 'hypnotized' me into taking_Lillian's Duty_. You'll need all your courage; the critics are to beout in force."
"I do not fear them," he answered, as they whirled into the plaza and upto the side entrance of the hotel.
"I've engaged a room for you here, Douglass," said Hugh, and the newnote of almost comradeship struck the playwright with wonder. He was alittle sceptical of it.
"Very well," he answered. "I am reckless. I will stay one day."
"Mother will be waiting to see you," said Helen, as they entered thehall. "She is your stanch supporter."
"She is a dear mother. I wish she were my own."
Each word he uttered now carried a hidden meaning, and some innerrelenting, some sweet, secret concession which he dimly felt but darednot presume upon, gave her a girlish charm which she had never beforeworn in his eyes.
They took lunch together, seated at the same table in the same way, andyet not in the same spirit. He was less self-centred, less insistent.His winter of proved inefficiency, his sense of indebtedness to her, hisall-controlling love for her gave him a new appeal. He was at oncetender and humorous as he referred again to _Alessandra_.
"Well, now that my chief work of art is destroyed, I must begin again atthe bottom. I have definitely given up all idea of following myprofession. I am going to do specials for one of the weeklies. Andersonhas interceded for me. I am to enter the ranks of the enemy. I am notsure but I ought to do a criticism of my own play to-morrow night."
She was thinking of ot
her things. "Tell me of your people. Did you talkof me to them? What did they say of me?"
"They all think of you as a kind, middle-aged lady, who has been verygood to a poor country boy."
She laughed. "How funny! Why should they think me so old?"
"They can't conceive how a mere girl can be so rich and powerful. Howcould they realize the reckless outpouring of gold which flows fromthose who seek pleasure to those who give it."
She grew instantly graver. "They would despise me if they knew. I don'tlike being a mere toy of the public--a pleasure-giver and nothing else.Of course there are different ways of pleasing. That is why I couldn'tdo _Alessandra_. Tell me of your brother. I liked what you wrote of him.He is our direct opposite, isn't he? Does he talk as well as youreported, or were you polishing him a little?"
"No, Walt has a remarkable taste in words. He has always been theliterary member of our family, but is too lazy to write. He is contentto grow fat in his little round of daily duties."
"I wonder if we haven't lost something by becoming enslaved to thegreat city! Our pleasures are more intense, but they _do_ wear us out.Think of you and me to-morrow night--our anxiety fairly cancelling ourpleasure--and then think of your brother going leisurely home to hiswife, his babies, and his books. I don't know--sometimes when I think ofgrowing old in a flat or a hotel I am appalled. I hate to keep motherhere. Sometimes I think of giving it all up for a year or two and goingback to the country, just to see how it would affect me. I don't want toget artificial and slangy with no interests but the stage, like so manygood actresses I know. It's such a horribly egotistic business--"
"There are others," he said.
"Writers are bad enough, but actors and opera-singers are infinitelyworse. Mother has helped me." She put her soft palm on her mother'swrinkled hand. "Nothing can spoil mother; nothing can take away the homeatmosphere--not even the hotel. Well, now I must go to our finalrehearsal. I will not see you again till the close of the second act.You must be in your place to-night," she said, with tender warning. "Iwant to see your face whenever I look for it."
"I am done with running away," he answered, as he slowly released herhand. "I shall pray for your success--not my own."
"Fortunately my success is yours."
"In the deepest sense that is true," he answered.
XX
As Douglass entered the theatre that night Westervelt met him withbeaming smile. "I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Douglass." Henodded and winked. "You are all right now, my boy. You have them coming.I was all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't she tell you?"
"You mean about the advance sale?--no."
Westervelt grew cautious. "Oh--well, then, I will be quiet. She wants totell you. She will do so."
"Advance sale must be good," thought the playwright, as he walked oninto the auditorium. The ushers smiled, and the old gatekeeper greetedhim shortly.
"Ye've won out, Mr. Douglass."
"Can it be that this play is to mark the returning tide of Helen'spopularity?" he asked himself, and a tremor of excitement ran over him,the first thrill of the evening. Up to this moment he had a curioussense of aloofness, indifference, as if the play were not his own butthat of a stranger. He began now to realize that this was his thirdattempt to win the favor of the public, and according to an old boyishsuperstition should be successful.
Helen had invited a great American writer--a gracious and inspiringpersonality--to occupy her box to meet her playwright, and once withinhis seat Douglass awaited the coming of the great man with impatienceand concern. He was conscious of a great change in himself and hisattitude towards Helen since he last sat waiting for the curtain torise.
"Nothing--not even the dropping of an act--could rouse in me theslightest resentment towards her." He flushed with torturing shame atthe recollection of his rage, his selfish, demoniacal, egotistic furyover the omission of his pet lines.
"I was insane," he muttered, pressing a hand to his eyes as if to shutout the memory of Helen's face as she looked that night. "And sheforgave me! She must have known I was demented." And her sweetness, herlargeness of sympathy again overwhelmed him. "Dare I ask her to marryme?" He no longer troubled himself about her wealth nor with thedifference between them as to achievement, but he comprehended at lastthat her superiority lay in her ability to forgive, in her power toinspire love and confidence, in her tact, her consideration for others,her wondrous unselfishness.
"What does the public know of her real greatness? Capable of imaginingthe most diverse types of feminine character, living each night on thestage in an atmosphere of heartless and destructive intrigue, she yetretains a divine integrity, an inalienable graciousness. Dare I, amoody, selfish brute, touch the hem of her garment?"
In this mood he watched the audience gather--a smiling, cheerful-voiced,neighborly throng. There were many young girls among them, and theirgraceful, bared heads gave to the orchestra chairs a brilliant andcharmingly intimate effect. The _roue_, the puffed and beefy man ofsensual type, was absent. The middle-aged, bespangled, gluttonous womanwas absent. The faces were all refined and gracious--an audienceselected by a common interest from among the millions who dwell withinan hour's travel of the theatre.
Douglass fancied he could detect in these auditors the same feeling ofsecurity, of satisfaction, of comfort with which they were accustomed tosit down of an evening with a new book by a favorite author.
"If I could but win a place like that," he exclaimed to himself, "Iwould be satisfied. It can be done when the right man comes."
A dinner engagement delayed the eminent author, but he came in as thecurtain was rising, and, shaking hands cordially, presented Mr. RufusBrown, a visiting London critic.
"Mr. Brown is deeply interested in your attempt to do an American play,"said the great novelist. "I hope--I am sure he will witness your triumphto-night." Thereupon they took seats with flattering promptness in ordernot to miss a word of the play.
Helen, coming on a moment after, was given a greeting almost frenziedlycordial, and when she bowed her eyes sought the box in which her loversat, and the audience, seeing the distinguished novelist and feelingsome connection between them, renewed their applause. Douglass, at theback of the box, rose and stood with intent to express to Helen theadmiration, the love, and the respect which he felt for her. She was,indeed, "the beautiful, golden-haired lady" of whom he had written as aboy, and a singular timidity, a wave of worship went over him.
He became the imaginative lad of the play, who stood in awe and worshipof mature womanhood. The familiar Helen was gone, the glittering womanwas gone, and in her place stood the ideal of the boy--the authorhimself had returned to "the land of morning glow"--to the time when thecurl of a woman's lip was greater than any war. The boy on the stagechanted:
"Where I shall find her I know not. But I trust in the future! To me She will come. I am not forgot. Out in the great world she's waiting, Perhaps by the shore of the sea, By the fabulous sea, where the white sand gleams, I shall meet her and know her and claim her. The beautiful, stately lady I see in my dreams."
"I dare not claim her," said the man, humbled by her beauty. "I am notworthy of her."
The applause continued to rise instant and cordial in support of playersand play. Auditors, actors, and author seemed in singularly harmoniousrelation. As the curtain fell cries of approval mingled with thehand-clapping.
The novelist reached a kindly hand. "You've found your public, my dearfellow. These people are here after an intelligent study of your otherplays. This is a gallant beginning. Don't you think so, Brown?"
"Very interesting attempt to dramatize those boyish fancies," theEnglish critic replied. "But I don't quite see how you can advance onthese idyllic lines. It's pretty, but is it drama?"
"He will show us," replied the novelist. "I have great faith in Mr.Douglass. He is helping to found an American drama. You must see hisother plays."
Westervelt came to t
he box wheezing with excitement. "My boy, you aremade. The critics are disarmed. They begin to sing of you."
Douglass remained calm. "There is plenty of time for them to turnbitter," he answered. "I am most sceptical when they are gracious."
The second act left the idyllic ground, and by force of stern contrastheld the audience enthralled. The boy was being disillusioned. _TheMorning_ had grown gray. Doubt of his ideal beset the poet. The world'sforces began to benumb and appall him. His ideal woman passed to thepossession of another. He lost faith in himself. The cloud deepened, thesky, overshadowed as by tempest, let fall lightning and a crash ofthunder. So the act closed.
The applause was unreservedly cordial--no one failed to join in the fineroar--and in the midst of it Douglass, true to his promise, hurried backto the scenes to find Helen.
She met him, radiant with excitement. "My brave boy! You have won yourvictory. They are calling for you." He protested. She insisted. "No, no.It is _you_. I've been out. Hear them; they want the author. Come!"
Dazed and wordless, weak from stage-fright, he permitted himself to beled forth into the terrifying glare of the footlight world. There hisguide left him, abandoned him, pitifully exposed to a thousand eyes,helpless and awkward. He turned to flee, to follow her, but the roguishsmile on her face, as she kissed her fingers towards him, somehow rousedhis pride and gave him courage to face the tumult. As he squared himselfan awesome silence settled over the house--a silence that inspired aswell as appalled by its expectancy.
"Friends, I thank you," the pale and resolute author weakly began. "Ididn't know I had so many friends in the world. Two minutes ago I was soscared my teeth chattered. Now I am entirely at my ease--you noticethat." The little ripple of laughter which followed this remark reallygave him time to think--gave him courage. "I feel that I am at last faceto face with an audience that knows my work--that is ready to support aserious attempt at playwriting. I claim that a play may do somethingmore than amuse--it may _interest_. There is a wide difference, you willsee. To be an amusement merely is to degrade our stage to the level of aPunch-and-Judy show. I am sorry for tired men and weary women, but as adramatist I can't afford to take their troubles into account. I amwriting for those who are mentally alert and willing to support playsthat have at least the dignity of intention which lies in our bestnovels. This does not mean gloomy plays or problem plays, but it doesmean conscientious study of American life. If you like me as well afterthe close of the play"--he made dramatic pause--"well I shall not beable to sleep to-night. I sincerely thank you. You have given me a fairhearing--that is all I can ask--and I am very grateful."
This little speech seemed to please his auditors, but his real rewardcame when Helen met him at the wings and caught his arm to her side inan ecstatic little hug. "You did beautifully! You make me afraid of youwhen you stand tall and grand like that. You were scared though. Icould see that."
"You deserted me," he answered, in mock accusation. "You led me into thecrackling musketry and ran away."
"I wanted to see of what metal you were made," she answered, and fled toher dressing-room to prepare for the final act.
"Now for the real test," said the novelist, with a kindly smile. "Ithink we could all write plays if it were not for the difficulty ofending them."
"I begin to tremble for my climax," Douglass answered. "It is soimportant to leave a sweet and sonorous sound in the ear at the last. Itmust die on the sense like the sound of a bell."
"It's a remarkable achievement, do you know," began the English critic,"to carry a parable along with a realistic study of life. I can't reallysee how you're coming out."
"I don't know myself," replied Douglass.
The play closed quietly, with a subjective climax so deep, so true tohuman nature that it laid hold upon every heart. The applause was slowin rising, but grew in power till it filled the theatre like some greatanthem. No one rose, no one was putting on wraps. The spell lasted tillthe curtain rose three times on the final picture.
Douglass could not speak as the critic shook his hand. It was so muchmore affecting than he had dared to hope. To sit there while his ideals,his hopes, his best thoughts, his finest conceptions were thusgloriously embodied was the greatest pleasure of his life. All his doubtand bitterness was lost in a flood of gratitude to Helen and to thekindly audience.
As soon as he could decently escape he hurried again to Helen. The stagethis time was crowded with people. The star was hid, as of old, in a mobof her admirers, but they were of finer quality than ever before. Thegrateful acknowledgment of these good people was an inspiration. Everyone smiled, and yet in the eyes of many of the women tears sparkled.
Helen, catching sight of her lover, lifted her hand and called to him,and though he shrank from entering the throng he obeyed. Those whorecognized him fell back with a sort of awe of his good-fortune. Helenreached her hand, saying, huskily, "I am tired--take me away."
He took her arm and turned to the people still crowding to speak to her."Friends, Miss Merival is very weary. I beg you to excuse her. It hasbeen a very hard week for her."
And with an air of mastery, as significant as it was unconscious he ledher to her room.
Safely inside the door she turned, and with a finger to her lips, aroguish light in her eyes, she said: "I want to tell you something. Ican't wait any longer. _Enid's Choice_ ran to the capacity of the houselast week."
For a moment he did not realize the full significance of this. "What!_Enid's Choice_? Why, how can that be? I thought--"
"We had twelve hundred and eighty dollars at the Saturday matinee andeleven hundred at night. Of course part of this was due to the knowledgethat it was the last day of the piece, but there is no doubt of itssuccess."
A choking came to his throat, his eyes grew dim. "I can't believe it.Such success is impossible to me."
"It is true, and that is the reason I was able to burn _Alessandra_."
"And that is the reason Hugh and Westervelt were so cordial, and Ithought it was all on account of the advance sale of _The Morning_!"
"And this is only the beginning. I intend to play all your plays in arepertoire, and you're to write me others as I need them. Andfinally--and this I hate to acknowledge--you are no longer in my debt."
"That I know is not true," he said. "Everything I am to-night I owe toyou."
"The resplendent author has made the wondrous woman very proud and yetvery humble to-night," she ended, softly, with eyelashes drooping.
"She has reared a giant that seeks to devour her." He caught her to hisside. "Do you know what all this means to you and to me? It means thatwe are to be something more than playwright and star. It means that Iwill not be satisfied till your life and mine are one."
She put him away in such wise that her gesture of dismissal allured."You must go, dearest. Our friends are waiting, and I must dress. Sometime I will tell you how much--you have become to me--but not now!"
He turned away exultant, for her eyes had already confessed the secretwhich her lips still shrank from uttering.
THE END
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 19
