The Light of the Star: A Novel

  XVI

  Douglass knew before he had set foot upon the pavement that his life wasblasted, that his chance of success and Helen's love were gone,forfeited by his own egotism, his insane selfishness; but it was only ahalf-surrender; something very stark and unyielding rose within him,preventing his return to ask forgiveness. The scorn, the contempt ofHugh's words, and the lines of loathing appearing for the first time inHelen's wonderfully sensitive face burned each moment deeper into hissoul. The sorrows of _Enid's_ world rose like pale clouds above theimmovable mountains of his shame and black despair.

  He did not doubt for a moment but that this separation was final. "Aftersuch a revelation of my character," he confessed, "she can do nothingelse but refuse to see me. I have only myself to blame. I was insane,"and he groaned with his torment. "She is right. Hugh is right indefending his household against me. My action was that of a fool--ahideous, egotistic fool."

  Seeking refuge in his room, he faced his future in nerveless dejection.His little store of money was gone, and his profession, long abandoned,seemed at the moment a broken staff--his place on the press in doubt.What would his good friend say to him now when he asked for a chance toearn his bread? He had flouted the critics, the dramatic departments ofall the papers. In his besotted self-confidence he had cast away all hisbest friends, and with these reflections came the complete revelation ofHelen's kindness--and her glittering power. Back upon him swept arealization of the paradise in which he had lived, in whose air hisegotism had expanded like a mushroom.

  Leagued with her, enjoying her bounty and sharing in the power which hersuccess had brought her, he had imagined himself a great writer, a manwith a compelling message to his fellows. It seemed only necessary toreach out his hand in order to grasp a chaplet--a crown. With her theworld seemed his debtor. Now he was a thing cast off, a broken boygrovelling at the foot of the ladder of fame.

  While he withered over his defeat the electric cars, gigantic insects ofthe dawn, began to howl and the trains on the elevated railway thunderedby. The city's voice, which never ceases, but which had sunk to a sleepymurmur, suddenly awoke, and with clattering, snarling crescendo roarannounced the coming of the tides of toilers. "I am facing the day," hesaid to himself, "and the papers containing the contemptuous judgmentsof my critics are being delivered in millions to my fellow-citizens.This thing I have gained--I am rapidly becoming infamous."

  His weakness, his shuddering fear made his going forth a torture. Eventhe bell-boy who brought his papers seemed to exult over his misery, butby sternly sending him about an errand the worn playwright managed tooverawe and silence him, and then, with the city's leading papers beforehim, he sat down to his bitter medicine. As he had put aside thejudgments of _Lillian's Duty_, with contemptuous gesture, so now hesearched out every line, humbly admitting the truth of every criticism,instructed even by the lash of those who hated him.

  The play had closed unexpectedly well, one paper admitted, but it couldnever succeed. It was not dramatic of construction. Another admittedthat it was a novel and pretty entertainment, a kind of prose poem, afantasy of the present, but without wide appeal. Others called it amoonshine monologue--that a girl at once so naive and so powerful wasimpossible. All united in praise of Helen, however, and, as though byagreement, bewailed her desertion of the roles in which she won greatrenown. "Our advice, given in the friendliest spirit, is this: go backto the twilight of the past, to the costume play. Get out of the garishlight of to-day. The present is suited only for a kind of crass comedyor Bowery melodrama. Only the past, the foreign, affords setting for thelarge play of human passion which Helen Merival's great art demands."

  "You are cheating us," wrote another. "There are a thousand little_ingenues_ who can play acceptably this goody-goody _Enid_, but the bestof them would be lost in the large folds of your cloak in _The BaronessTelka_."

  Only one wrote in almost unmeasured praise, and his words, so wellchosen, salved the smarting wounds of the dramatist. "Those who haveseen Miss Merival only as the melodrama queen or the adventuress injet-black evening dress have a surprise in store for them. Her _Enid_is a dream of cold, chaste girlhood--a lily with heart of fire--in whosetender, virginal eyes the lust and cruelty of the world arouse only pityand wonder. So complete was Miss Merival's investiture of herself inthis part that no one recognized her as she stepped on the stage. For amoment even her best friends sat silent." And yet this friend ended likethe rest in predicting defeat. "The play is away over the heads of anyaudience likely to come to see it. The beringed and complacent wives ofNew York and their wine-befuddled husbands will find little to entertainthem in this idyl of modern life. As for the author, George Douglass, wehave only this to say: He is twenty years ahead of his time. Let him goon writing his best and be patient. By-and-by, when we have time tothink of other things than money, when our wives have ceased to strugglefor social success, when the reaction to a simpler and truer lifecomes--and it is coming--then the quality of such a play as _Enid'sChoice_ will give its author the fame and the living he deserves."

  The tears came to Douglass's eyes. "Good old Jim! He knows I needcomfort this morning. He's prejudiced in my favor--everybody will seethat; and yet there is truth in what he says. I will go to him and askfor work, for I must get back to earning a weekly wage."

  He went down and out into the street. The city seemed unusuallybrilliant and uncaring. From every quarter of the suburbs floods ofpeople were streaming in to work or to shop, quite unknowing of anyone's misfortunes but their own, each intent on earning a living orsecuring a bargain. "How can I appeal to these motes?" he asked himself."By what magic can I lift myself out of this press to earn a living--outof this common drudgery?" He studied the faces in the coffee-house wherehe sat. "How many of these citizens are capable of understanding for amoment _Enid's Choice_? Is there any subject holding an interest commonto them and to me which would not in a sense be degrading in me todramatize for their pleasure?"

  This was the question, and though his breakfast and a walk on the avenuecleared his brain, it did not solve his problem. "They don't want myideas on architecture. My dramatic criticism interests but a few. Myplays are a proved failure. What is to be done?"

  Mingled with these gloomy thoughts, constantly recurring like the dull,far-off boom of a sombre bell, was the consciousness of his loss ofHelen. He did not think of returning to ask forgiveness. "I do notdeserve it," he repeated each time his heart prompted a message to her."She is well rid of me. I have been a source of loss, of trouble, andvexation to her. She will be glad of my self-revelation." Nevertheless,when he found her letter waiting for him in his box at the office he wassmitten with sudden weakness. "What would she say? She has every reasonto hate me, to cast me and my play to the winds. Has she done so? Icannot blame her."

  Safe in his room, he opened the letter, the most fateful that had evercome to him in all his life. The very lines showed the agitation of thewriter:

  "MY DEAR AUTHOR,--Pardon me for my harshness last night, and come to see me at once. I was nervous and anxious, as you were. I should have made allowances for the strain you were under. Please forgive me. Come and lunch, as usual, and talk of the play. I believe in it, in spite of all. It must make its own public, but I believe it will do so. Come and let me hear you say you have forgotten my words of last night. I didn't really mean them; you must have known that."

  His throat filled with tenderness and his head bowed in humility as heread these good, sweet, womanly lines, and for the moment he was readyto go to her and receive pardon kneeling. But as he thought of the wronghe had done her, the misfortune he had brought upon her, a stubborn,unaccountable resolution hardened his heart. "No, I will not go backtill I can go as her equal. I am broken and in disgrace now. I will notburden her generosity further."

  The thought of making his peace with Hugh, of meeting Westervelt's hardstare, aided this resolution, and, sitting at his desk, he wrote a longand passionate letter, wherein he deli
neated with unsparing hand hismiserable failure. He took a pride and a sort of morbid pleasure inpunishing himself, in denying himself any further joy in her company.

  "It is better for you and better for me that we do not meet again--at least till I have won the tolerance of your brother and manager and my own self-respect. The work I have done is honest work; I will not admit that it is wholly bad, but I cannot meet Hugh again till I can demand consideration. It was not so much the words he used as the tone. I was helpless in resenting it. That I am a beggar, a dangerous influence, I admit. I am appalled at the thought of what I have done to injure you. Cast me overboard. Not even your beauty, your great fame, can make my work vital to the public. I am too perverse, too individual. There is good in me, but it is evil to you. I no longer care what they say of me, but I feel every word derogatory of you as if it were a red-hot point of steel. I did not sleep last night; I spent the time in reconstructing myself. I confessed my grievous sins, and I long to do penance. This play is also a failure. I grew cold with hate of myself last night as I thought of the irreparable injury I had done to you. I here relinquish all claim to both pieces; they are yours to do with as you like. Take them, rewrite them, play them, or burn them, as you will.

  "You see, I am very, very humble. I have put my foolish pride underfoot. I am not broken. I am still very proud and, I fear, self-conceited, in spite of my severe lesson. _Enid_ is beautiful, and I know it, and it helps me write this letter, but I have no right to ask even friendship from you. My proved failure as a playwright robs me of every chance of meeting you on equal terms. I want to repay you, I _must_ repay you, for what you have done. If I could write now, it would be not to please myself, but to please you, to help you regain your dominion. I want to see you the radiant one again, speaking to throngs of happy people. If I could by any sacrifice of myself call back the homage of the critics and place you where I found you, the acknowledged queen of American actresses, I would do it. But I am helpless. I shall not speak or write to you again till I can come with some gift in my hand--some recompense for your losses through me. I have been a malign influence in your life. I am in mad despair when I think of you playing to cold and empty houses. I am going back to the West to do sash factories and wheat elevators; these are my _metier_. You are the one to grant pardon; I am the malefactor. I am taking myself out of your world. Forgive me and--forget me. Hugh was right. My very presence is a curse to you. Good-bye."