X
At two o'clock, when Douglass returned to his hotel, tired and recklessof any man's scorn, the night clerk smiled and said, as he handed him ahandful of letters, "I hear you had a great audience, Mr. Douglass."
The playwright did not discover Helen's note among his letters till hehad reached his room, and then, without removing his overcoat, he stoodbeneath the gas-jet and read:
"MY DEAR AUTHOR,--My heart bleeds for you. I know how you must suffer, but you must not despair. A first night is not conclusive. Do not blame yourself. I took up your play with my eyes open to consequences. You are wrong if you think even the failure of this play (which I do not grant) can make any difference in my feeling towards you. The power of the lines, your high purpose, remain. Suppose it does fail? You are young and fertile of imagination. You can write another and better play in a month, and I will produce it. My faith in you is not weakened, for I know your work is good. I have turned my back on the old art and the old roles; I need you to supply me with new ones. This is no light thing with me. I confess to surprise and dismay to-night, but I should not have been depressed had you been there beside me. I was deeply hurt and puzzled by your absence, but I think I understand how sore and wounded you were. Come in to see me to-morrow, as usual, and we will consider what can be done with this play and plan for a new one. Come! You are too strong and too proud to let a single unfriendly audience dishearten you. We will read the papers together at luncheon and laugh at the critics. Don't let your enemies think they have driven you into retirement. Forget them in some new work, and remember my faith in you is not shaken."
This letter, so brave, so gravely tender and so generous, filled himwith love, choked him with grateful admiration. "You are the noblestwoman in the world, the bravest, the most forgiving. I will notdisappoint you."
His bitterness and shame vanished, his fists clinched in new resolution."You are right. I can write another play, and I will. My critics shalllaugh from the other side of their mouths. They shall not have thesatisfaction of knowing that they have even wounded me. I will justifyyour faith in my powers. I will set to work to-morrow--this verynight--on a new play. I will make you proud of me yet, Helen, my queen,my love." With that word all his doubts vanished. "Yes, I love her, andI will win her."
In the glow of his love-born resolution he began to search among hispapers for an unfinished scenario called _Enid's Choice_. When he hadfound it he set to work upon it with a concentration that seemed uncannyin the light of his day's distraction and dismay. _Lillian's Duty_ andthe evening's bitter failure had already grown dim in his mind.
Helen's understanding of him was precise. He was of those who neverreally capitulate to the storm, no matter how deeply they may sink attimes in the trough of the sea. As everything had been against him up tothat moment, he was not really taken by surprise. All his life he hadgone directly against the advice and wishes of his family. He hadstudied architecture rather than medicine, and had set his face towardsthe East rather than the West. Every dollar he had spent he had earnedby toil, and the things he loved had always seemed the wasteful anddangerous things. He wrote plays in secret when he should have beensoliciting commissions for warehouses, and read novels when he shouldhave been intent upon his business.
"It was impossible that I should succeed so quickly, so easily, evenwith the help of one so powerful as Helen Merival. It is my fate to workfor what I get." And with this return of his belief that to himselfalone he must look for victory, his self-poise and self-confidence cameback.
He looked strong, happy, and very handsome next morning as he greetedthe clerk of the Embric, who had no guile in his voice as he said:
"Good-morning, Mr. Douglass. I hear that your play made a big hit lastnight."
"I reckon it hit something," he replied, with easy evasion.
The clerk continued: "My wife's sister was there. She liked it verymuch."
"I am very glad she did," replied Douglass, heartily. As he walked overtowards the elevator a couple of young men accosted him.
"Good-morning, Mr. Douglass. We are from _The Blazon_. We would like toget a little talk out of you about last night's performance. How do youfeel about the verdict."
"It was a 'frost,'" replied Douglass, with engaging candor, "but I don'tconsider the verdict final. I am not at all discouraged. You see, it'sall in getting a hearing. Miss Merival gave my play a superb production,and her impersonation ought to fill the theatre, even if _Lillian'sDuty_ were an indifferent play, which it is not. Miss Merival, inchanging the entire tone and character of her work, must necessarilydisappoint a certain type of admirer. Last night's audience was verylargely made up of those who hate serious drama, and naturally they didnot like my text. All that is a detail. We will create our ownaudience."
The reporters carried away a vivid impression of the author's youth,strength, and confidence, and one of them sat down to convey to thepublic his admiration in these words:
"Mr. Douglass is a Western man, and boldly shies his buckskin into the arena and invites the keenest of his critics to take it up. If any one thinks the 'roast' of his play has even singed the author's wings, he is mistaken. He is very much pleased with himself. As he says, a hearing is a great thing. He may be a chopping-block, but he don't look it."
Helen met her playwright with an anxious, tired look upon her face, butwhen he touched her fingers to his lips and said, "At your service, mylady," she laughed in radiant, sudden relief.
"Oh, but I'm glad to see you looking so gay and strong. I was heart-sorefor you last night. I fancied you in all kinds of torture."
His face darkened. "I was. My blue devils assailed me, but I vanquishedthem, thanks to your note," he added, with a burning glance deep-sent,and his voice fell to a tenderness which betrayed his heart. "I thinkyou are the most tolerant star that ever put out a hand to a poorauthor. What a beast I was to run away! But I couldn't help it then. Iwanted to see you, but I couldn't face Westervelt and Royleston. Icouldn't endure to hear them say, 'I told you so.' You understood, I'msure of it."
She studied him with admiring eyes. "Yes, I understood--later. At firstI was crushed. It shook my faith in you for a little while." She put offthis mood (whose recollected shadows translated into her face filledDouglass's throat with remorse) and a smile disclosed her returningsense of humor. "Oh, Hugh and Westervelt are angry--perfectly purplewith indignation against you for leading me into a trap--"
"I feared that. That is why I begged you to throw my play--"
She laid a finger on her lips, for Mrs. MacDavitt came in. "Mother, hereis Mr. Douglass. I told you he would come. I hope you are hungry. Let ustake our places. Hugh is fairly used up this morning. Do you see thatbunch of papers?" she asked, pointing at a ragged pile. "Afterbreakfast we take our medicine."
"No," he said, firmly. "I have determined not to read a line of them. Toevery word you speak I will listen, but I will not be harrowed up by ahodgepodge of personal prejudices written by my enemies before the playwas produced or in a hurried hour between the fall of the curtain andgoing to press. I know too much about how these judgments are cooked up.I saw the faults of the play a good deal clearer than did any of thosesleepy gentlemen who came to the theatre surfeited and weary andresentful of your change of programme."
She looked thoughtful. "Perhaps you are right," she said, at last. "Iwill not read them. I know what they will say--"
"I thought the play was very beautiful," said Mrs. MacDavitt. "And myNellie was grand."
Helen patted her mother's hand. "We have one loyal supporter, Mr.Douglass."
"Ye've many more, if the truth were known," said the old mother,stoutly, for she liked young Douglass.
"I believe that," cried Helen. "Did you consider that as I change myroles and plays I must also, to a large extent, change my audience? Thepeople who like me as _Baroness Telka_ are amazed and angered by yourplay. They will
not come to see me. But there are others," she added,with a smile at the slang phrase.
"I thought of that, but not till last night."
"It will take longer to inform and interest our new public than any ofus realized. I am determined to keep _Lillian_ on for at least fourweeks. Meanwhile you can prune it and set to work on a new one. Have youa theme?"
"I have a scenario," he triumphantly answered. "I worked it out thismorning between two o'clock and four."
She reached her hand to him impulsively, and as he took it a warm flushcame into her face and her eyes were suffused with happy tears.
"That's brave," she said. "I told them you could not be crushed. I knewyou were of those who fight hardest when closest pressed. You must tellme about it at once--not this minute, of course, but when we are alone."
When Hugh came in a few minutes later he found them discussing a newautomobile which had just made a successful trial run. The play becamethe topic of conversation again, but on a different plane.
Hugh was blunt, but not so abusive as he had declared his intention tobe. "There's nothing in _Lillian_," he said--"not a dollar. We'rethrowing our money away. We might better close the theatre. We won'thave fifty dollars in the house to-night. It's all right as a story, butit won't do for the stage."
Douglass kept his temper. "It was too long; but I can better that in afew hours. I'll have a much closer-knit action by Wednesday night."
As they were rising from the table Westervelt entered with a face like ahorse, so long and lax was it. "They have burned us alive!" heexclaimed, as he sank into a chair and mopped his red neck. He shooklike a gelatine pudding, and Helen could not repress a smile.
"Your mistake was in reading them. We burned the critics."
The manager stared in vast amaze. "You didn't read the papers?"
"Not one."
"Well, they say--"
She stopped him. "Don't tell me what they say--not a word. We did ourbest and we did good work, and will do better to-night, so don't comehere like a bird of ill-omen, Herr Westervelt. Go kill the critics ifyou feel like it, but don't worry us with tales of woe. Our duty is tothe play. We cannot afford to waste nervous energy writhing undercriticism. What is said is said, and repeating it only hurts us all."Her tone became friendly. "Really, you take it too hard. It is only amatter of a few thousand dollars at the worst, and to free you from allfurther anxiety I will assume the entire risk. I will rent yourtheatre."
"No, no!" cried Hugh. "We can't afford to do that."
"We can't afford to do less. I insist," she replied, firmly.
The manager lifted his fat shoulders in a convulsive shrug. His faceindicated despair of her folly. "Good Gott! Well, you are the doctor,only remember there will not be one hundred people in the houseto-night." He began to recover speech. "Think of that! Helen Merivalplaying to empty chairs--in _my_ theatre. Himmel!"
"It is sad, I confess, but not hopeless, Herr Westervelt. We must workthe harder to let the thoughtful people of the city know what we aretrying to do."
"Thoughtful people!" Again his scorn ran beyond his words for a momentand his tongue grew German. "Doughtful beople. Dey dondt bay dwo tollorsfer seats! _Our_ pusiness iss to attract the rich--the gaytheatre-goers. Who is going to pring a theatre-barty to see a sermon onthe stage--hay?"
"You are unjust to _Lillian's Duty_. It is not a sermon; it is apowerful acting play--the best part, from a purely acting standpoint, Ihave ever undertaken to do. But we will not discuss that now. Theventure is my own, and you will be safe-guarded. I will instruct mybrother to make the new arrangement at once."
With a final, despairing shrug the manager rose and went out, and Helen,turning an amused face to Douglass, asked, humorously: "Isn't he thetypical manager?--in the clouds to-day, stuck in the mud to-morrow.Sometimes he is excruciatingly funny, and then he disgusts me. They'realmost all alike. If business should be unexpectedly good to-night hewould be a man transformed. His face would shine, he would grasp everyactor by the hand, he would fairly fall upon your neck; but if businesswent down ten dollars on Wednesday night then look for the 'icy mitt'again. Big as he is he curls up like a sensitive plant when touched byadversity. He can't help it; he's really a child--a big, fat boy. Butcome, we must now consider the cuts for _Lillian_; then to ourscenario."
As the attendants whisked away the breakfast things Helen brought outthe original manuscript of _Lillian's Duty_, and took a seat beside herplaywright. "Now, what is the matter with the first act?"
"Nothing."
"I agree. What is out in the second?"
"Needs cutting."
"Where?"
"Here and here and here," he answered, turning the leaves rapidly.
"I felt it. I couldn't hold them there. Royleston's part wants the knifebadly. Now, the third act?"
"It is too diffuse, and the sociologic background gets obstinately intothe foreground. As I sat there last night I saw that the interest wastoo abstract, too impersonal for the ordinary play-goer. I can betterthat. The fourth act must be entirely rewritten. I will do that thisafternoon."
She faced him, glowing with recovered joy and recovered confidence. "Nowyou are Richard once again upon his horse."
"A hobby horse," he answered, with a laugh, then sobered. "In truth, mystrength comes from you. At least you roused me. I was fairly in thegrasp of the Evil One when your note came. Your splendid confidence setme free. It was beautiful of you to write me after I had sneaked awaylike a wounded coyote. I cannot tell you what your letter was to me."
She held up a finger. "Hush! No more of that. We are forgetting, and youare becoming personal." She said this in a tone peculiarly at variancewith the words. "Now read me the scenario of the new play. I am eager toknow what has moved you, set you on high again."
The creative fire began to glow in his eyes. "This is to be asindividual, as poetic, as the other was sociologic. The character youare to play is that of a young girl who knows nothing of life, but agreat deal of books. _Enid's_ whole world is revealed by the light whichstreams from the window of a convent library--a gray, cold light withdeep shadows. She is tall and pale and severe of line, but her blue eyesare deep and brooding. Her father, a Western mine-owner, losing hissecond wife, calls on his daughter to return from the Canadian conventin which she has spent seven years. She takes her position as an heiressin his great house. She is plunged at once into the midst of apleasure-seeking, thoughtless throng of young people whose interests inlife seem to her to be grossly material. She becomes the prey ofadventurers, male and female, and has nothing but her innate purity todefend her. Ultimately there come to her two men who type the forces atwar around her, and she is forced to choose between them."
As he outlined this new drama the mind of the actress took hold of_Enid's_ character, so opposite in energy to _Lillian_, and its greatpossibilities exalted her, filled her with admiration for the mind whichcould so quickly create a new character.
"I see I shall never want for parts while you are my playwright," shesaid, when he had finished.
"Oh, I can write--so long as I have you to write for and to work for,"he replied. "You are the greatest woman in the world. Your faith in me,your forgiveness of my cowardice, have given me a sense of power--"
She spoke quickly and with an effort to smile. "We are getting personalagain."
He bowed to the reminder. "I beg your pardon. I will not offend again."