The Light of the Star: A Novel

  II

  Douglass rose next morning with a bound, as if life had somehow becomesurcharged with fresh significance, fresh opportunity. His professionalcareer seemed dull and prosaic--his critical work of small avail. Hiswhole mind centred on his play.

  His was a moody, sensitive nature. Stern as he looked, and strong as hereally was, he could be depressed by a trifle or exalted by a word. Andreviewing his meeting with Helen in the light of the morning, he hadmore than a suspicion that he had allowed himself to talk too freely inthe presence of the brother and mother, and that he had beenover-enthusiastic, not to say egotistic; but he was saved from dejectionby the memory of the star's great, brown-black eyes. There was nopretence in them. She had been rapt--carried out of conventional wordsand graces by something which rose from the lines he had written, thecharacters he had depicted.

  The deeper his scrutiny went the more important she became to him. Shewas not simple--she was very complex, and an artist of wonderful range,and certainty of appeal. He liked the plain and simple (almost angular)gestures and attitudes she used when talking to him. They were sobroadly indicative of the real Helen Merival, and so far from theaffectations he had expected to see. Of course, she was the actress--themobility of her face, her command of herself, was far beyond that of anyuntrained woman, no matter how versatile; but she was nobly the actress,broadened and deepened by her art.

  He was very eager to see her again, and as the day wore on this desiregrew to be an ache at his heart most disturbing. He became very restlessat last, and did little but walk around the park, returning occasionallyas the hour for the postman came. "I don't know why I should expect aletter from her. I know well the dilatory methods of theatricalpeople--and to-day is rehearsal, too. I am unreasonable. If I hear fromher in a week I may count myself lucky."

  A message from the dramatic editor of _The Blazon_, asking him to do aspecial study of an English actor opening that night at the Broadway,annoyed him. "I can't do it," he answered. "I have another engagement."And recklessly put aside the opportunity to earn a week's board, soexalted was he by reason of the word of the woman.

  At dinner he lacked appetite entirely, and as he had taken but an eggand a cup of coffee for breakfast, and had missed luncheon altogether,he began to question himself as to the meaning of his ailment, with sadattempt at humor. "It isn't exactly as serious as dying. Even if shereconsiders and returns my play, I can still make a living." He wouldnot admit that any other motive was involved.

  He had barely returned to his room before a knock at the door announceda boy with a note. As he took it in his hand his nerves tingled asthough he had touched the wondrous woman's hand. The note was brief, yetfateful:

  "I enclose a ticket for the manager's box. I hope you can come. I want to talk about your play. I will send my brother to bring you in back to see me. I have been rehearsing all the afternoon, but I re-read the play this morning while in bed. I like it better and better, but you can do more with it--I feel that you have suppressed the poetry here and there. My quarrel with you realists is that you are afraid to put into your representations of life the emotions that make life a dynamic thing. But it is stirring and suggestive as it is. Come in and talk with me, for I am full of it and see great possibilities in the final act."

  His hands were tremulous and his eyes glowing as he put the note downand faced himself in the glass. The pleasure of meeting her again undersuch conditions made him forget, for the moment, the role she was toplay--a part he particularly detested. Truly he was the most fortunateand distinguished of men--to be thus taken by the hand and lifted fromnameless obscurity to the most desired position beside a great star.

  He dressed with unusual care, and was a noticeably handsome figure as hesat alone in the box; and elated, tense, self-conscious. When she cameon and walked close down to the foot-lights nearest him, flashing aglance of recognition into his eyes, his breath quickened and his faceflushed. A swift interchange of light and fire took place at the moment,her eyelids fell. She recoiled as if in dismay, then turned andapparently forgot him and every one else in the fervor of her art.

  A transforming readjustment of all the lines of her face took place. Shebecame sinister, mocking, and pitiless. An exultant cruelty croaked inher voice. Minute, repulsive remodellings of her neck and cheeks changedher to a harpy, and seeing these evidences of her great genius Douglassgrew bitterly resentful, and when she laughed, with the action of avulture thrusting her head forward from the shoulders, he sickened andturned away. It was marvellous work, but how desecrating to her gloriouswomanhood. Coming so close on that moment of mystic tenderness it washorrible. "My God! She must not play such parts. They will leave theirmark upon her."

  When the curtain fell he did not applaud, but drew back into the shadow,sullen, brooding, sorrowful. In the tableau which followed the recall,her eyes again sought for him (though she still moved in character),and the curtain fell upon the scene while yet she was seeking him.

  Here now began a transformation in the man. He had come to the theatretremulous with eagerness to look upon her face, to touch her hand, butwhen her brother entered the box, saying, "Mr. Douglass, this is thebest time to see my sister," he rose slowly with a curious reluctance.

  Through devious passages beneath the theatre, Hugh led the way, whilewith greater poignancy than ever before the young playwright sensed thevulgarity, the immodesty, and the dirt of the world behind and below thescenes. It was all familiar enough to him, for he had several friendsamong the actors, but the thought of one so sovereign as Helen in themidst of a region so squalid stung him. He was jealous of the actors,the scene-shifters, who were permitted to see her come and go.

  He was reserved and rather pale, but perfectly self-contained, as heentered the little reception-hall leading to her dressing-room. Hefaced her with a sense of dread--apprehensive of some disenchantment.She met him cordially, without the slightest reference to her make-up,which was less offensive than he had feared; but he winced,nevertheless, at the vulgarity of her part so skilfully suggested bypaint and powder. She gave him her hand with a frank gesture. "Youdidn't applaud my scenes to-night," she said, with a smile as enigmaticas the one she used in _The Baroness_.

  His voice was curt with emotion as he replied, "No, I did not; Icouldn't. They saddened me."

  "What do you mean?" she asked, with a startled, anxious paling beneathher rouge.

  His voice was low, but fiercely reproachful in answer. "I mean youshould treat your beautiful self and your splendid art with greaterconsideration."

  "You mean I should not be playing such women? I know it--I hate them.But no one ever accused me of taking my art lightly. I work harder onthese uncongenial roles than upon any other. They require infinitelymore effort, because I loathe them so."

  "I mean more than that. I am afraid to have you simulate such passions.They will leave their mark on you. It is defilement. Your womanhood istoo fine, too beautiful to be so degraded."

  She put her hand to her bosom and looked about her restlessly. Hisintensity scared her. "I know what you mean, but let us not talk of thatnow; let us discuss your play. I want to suggest something for yourthird act, but I must dress now. You will wait, won't you? We will havea few minutes before I go on. Please sit here and wait for me."

  He acquiesced silently, as was his fashion. There was little of thecourtier about him, but he became very ill at ease as he realized howsignificant his waiting must seem to those who saw him there. Deeply inthe snare as he was, this sitting beside an actress's dressing-room doorbecame intolerable to his arrogant soul, and he was about to flee whenHugh came back and engaged him in conversation. So gratified wasDouglass for this kindness, he made himself agreeable till such time asHelen, in brilliant evening-dress, came out; and when Hugh left themtogether he was less assertive and brusque in manner.

  She was so luminous, so queenly, she dissipated his cloud of doubts andscruples, and the tremor of the boyish lover came back
into his limbs ashe turned to meet her. His voice all but failed him as he answered toher question.

  For some ten minutes from behind her mask she talked of the play withenthusiasm--her sweet eyes untouched of the part she was about toresume. At last she said: "There is my cue. Good-bye! Can you breakfastwith us to-morrow, at eleven-thirty? It's really a luncheon. I know youare an early riser; but we will have something substantial. Will youcome?"

  Her smooth, strong fingers closed cordially on his hand as she spoke,and he answered, quickly, "With the greatest pleasure in the world."

  "We can talk at our leisure then. Good-bye!" and as she opened thecanvas door in the "box-scene" he heard her say, with high, cool,insulting voice, "Ah, my dear Countess, you are early." She was _TheBaroness_ again. After the fall of the curtain at the end, Douglassslipped out upon the pavement, his eyes blinded by the radiant pictureshe made in her splendid bridal robes. It was desolating to see herrepresent such a role, such agony, such despair; and yet his feet werereluctant to carry him away.

  He was like a famishing man, who has been politely turned from theglittering, savory dining-room into the street--only his hunger,immaterial as light, was a thousand times keener than that of the onewho lacks only bread and meat. He demanded her face, her voice, as onecalls for sunlight, for air. He knew that this day, this night, marked anew era in his life. Old things were passed away--new things, sweet,incredible things, were now happening.

  Nothing like this unrest and deep-seated desire had ever come into hislife, and the realization troubled him as a dangerous weakness. Itenslaved him, and he resented it. He secured a new view on his play,also, with its accusing defiance of dramatic law and custom. In thismoment of clear vision he was permitted a prevision of Helen strugglingwith the rebellious critics. Now that he had twice taken her hand he wasno longer so indifferent to the warfare of the critics, though he knewthey could not harm one so powerful as she.

  In the end of his tumult he wrote her a letter, wherein he began bybegging her pardon for seeming to interfere in the slightest degree withher work in the world. His letter continued:

  "I have back of me the conscience of my Scotch forebears, and though my training in college and in my office has covered my conscience with a layer of office dust it is still there. Of course (and obviously) you are not touched by the words and deeds of the women you represent, but I somehow feel that it is a desecration of your face and voice to put them to such uses. That is the reason I dreaded to go back and see you to-night. If you were seeking praise of your own proper self, the sincerity of this compliment is unquestionable. I ought to say, 'I hope my words to-night did not disturb you,' but I will not, for I hope to see you speedily drop all such hideous characters as _The Baroness Telka_. I felt as an artist might upon seeing a glorious statue befouled with mire. I say this not because I wish you to do _Lillian_. In the light of last night's performance my own play is a gray autumn day with a touch of frost in the air. It is inconceivable that you should be vitally interested in it. I fear no play that I care to write will please a sufficient number of people to make its production worth your while. I release you from your promise. Believe me, I am shaken in my confidence to-night. Your audience seemed so heartless, so debased of taste. They applauded most loudly the things most revolting to me. Since I have come to know you I cannot afford to have you make a sacrifice of yourself to produce my play, much as I desire to see you in new characters."

  As he dropped this letter into the box a storm-wave of his formerbitterness and self-accusation swept over him.

  "That ends another attempt to get my play staged. Her manager willunquestionably refuse to consider it."