As Eldon’s words echoed back through his ears he knew that he had said
too much and too soon. Sheila was afraid to speak at all; she could not
improvise the exquisitely nice phrase that should say neither more nor
less than enough. Indeed, she could not imagine just what she wanted to
say, what she really felt or ought to feel.
The woman was never born, probably, who could find a declaration of
devotion entirely unwelcome, no matter from whom. And yet Sheila felt
any number of inconveniences in being loved by this man who was a total
stranger yesterday and an old acquaintance to-day. It would be endlessly
embarrassing to have a member of the company, especially so humble a
member, infatuated with her. It would be infinitely difficult to be
ordinarily polite to him without either wounding him or seeming to
encourage him. She had the theatric gift for carrying on a situation
into its future developments. She was silent, but busily silent,
dramatizing to-morrows, and the to-morrows of to-morrows.
Eldon’s thoughts also were speeding noisily through his brain while his
lips were uncomfortably idle. He felt that he had been guilty of a gross
indiscretion and he wanted to remove himself from the discomfort he had
created, but he could not find the courage to get himself to his feet,
or the wit to continue or even to take up some other subject.
It was probably their silence that finally wakened Mrs. Vining. She
opened her drowsy eyes, wondering how long she had slept and hoping that
they had not missed her. She realized at once that they were both
laboring under some confusion. She was going to ask what it was.
Sheila resented the situation. Already she was a fellow-culprit with
this troublesome young man. An unwitting rescuer appeared in the person
of the stage-manager who dawdled along the aisle in the boredom of a
stage-manager, who can never quite forget his position of authority and
is never allowed to forget that his flock are proud individuals who feel
that they know more than he does.
Sheila was impelled to appeal to Batterson on Eldon’s behalf, but she
and the stage-manager had been in a state of armed truce since a clash
that occurred at rehearsals. Batterson was not the original producer of
the play, but he put out the road company and kept with it.
A reading of Sheila’s had always jarred him. He tried to change it. She
tried to oblige him, but simply could not grasp what he was driving at.
One of those peculiar struggles ensued in which two people are mutually
astounded and outraged at their inability to explain or understand.
But if Mr. Batterson was hostile to Sheila, he was afraid of Mrs.
Vining, both because he revered her and because she had known him when
he was one of the most unpromising beginners that ever attempted the
stage. He had never succeeded as an actor, which was no proof of his
inability to tell others how to act, but always seemed so to them.
As he would have passed, Mrs. Vining, quite as if Sheila had prompted
her, made a gesture of detention:
“Oh, Mr. Batterson, will you do me a great favor?” He bowed meekly, and
she said, “Be a good boy and give Mr. Eldon here a chance to do some
real work the first opportunity you get.”
Batterson sighed. “Good Lord! has he been pestering you, too?”
“He has been telling me of his struggles and his ambitions,” Mrs. Vining
answered, with reproving dignity, “and I can see that he has ability. He
is a gentleman, at least, and that is more than can be said of some of
the people who are given some of the rôles.”
Batterson did not relish this. He had had one or two battles with Mrs.
Vining over some of her stage business and had been withered by her
comments on his knowledge of what really went on in real drawing-rooms.
She had told him that they were as different as possible from stage
drawing-rooms, and he had lacked information to answer. All he said now
was:
“I’ve promised Eldon a dozen times that he should have a try at the
first vacancy. But you know this old guard; they never surrender and
they never die.”
“Except when they get a cue,” was Mrs. Vining’s drop of acid.
Batterson renewed his pledge and moved on, with a glance in which Eldon
felt more threat than promise. But he thanked Mrs. Vining profusely and
apologized to Sheila for taking so much of her time talking about
himself. This made a good exit speech and he retired to his cell,
carrying with him a load of new anxieties and ambitions.
* * * * *
Triply happy was Eldon now. He had been commended to the stage-manager
and promised the first opportunity. He was getting somewhere. He had
established himself in the good graces of the old duchess of the troupe.
He had put his idol, Sheila, under obligations to him. He had ventured
to let her know that he had joined the company on her account, and she
had not rebuked him. This in itself was a thousand miles on his journey.
The meter of the train had hitherto been but a dry, monotonous
clickety-click like the rattle bones of a dolorous negro minstrel. Now
it was a jig, a wedding jig. The wheels and the rails fairly sang to him
time after tune. The amiable hippety-hop fitted itself to any joyful
thought that cantered through his heart.
By and by a town came sliding to the windows—Milton, a typical smallish
city with a shabby station, a stupid hotel, no history, and no sights;
it had reached the gawky age and stopped growing. But Eldon bade it
welcome. He liked anybody and any place. He set out for the hotel,
swinging his suit-case as if it were the harp of a troubadour. He walked
with two or three other men of the company.
Old Jaffer had said: “The Mansion House is the only hotel. It’s three
blocks to the right from the station and then two blocks to the left.”
Jaffer knew the least bad hotel and just how to find it in hundreds of
towns. He was a living gazetteer. “I’ve been to every burg in the
country, I think,” he would say, “and I’ve never seen one yet that had
anything to see.” The highest praise he could give a place was, “It’s a
good hotel town.”
But they were all paradises to Eldon. He had fed so dismally and so
sparsely, as a man out of a job, that even the mid-Westem coffee tasted
good to him. Besides, to-day he had fed on honey dew and drunk the milk
of paradise.
He was so jubilant that he offered to carry the hand-bag of Vincent
Tuell, who labored along at his side, groaning. Eldon’s offer offended
Tuell, who was just old enough to resent his age. It had already begun
to lop dollars off his salary and to cut him out of the line of parts he
had once commanded.
Tuell had never reached high—but he had always hoped high. Now he had
closed the books of hope. He was on the down grade. His career had not
been a peak, but a foot-hill, and he was on the wrong side of that. He
received Eldon’s proffer as an accusation of years. He answered with a
bitter negative, “No, thank you, damn you!”
Eldon apologized with a laugh. He felt as hilariously contented and
sportive as a young pup whom no rebuff can offend. As he strode along he
glanced back and saw that Sheila and Mrs. Vining were footing it, too,
and carrying such luggage as Pennock could not accommodate. Eldon was
amazed. He had supposed that they would ride. He dropped back to
Sheila’s elbow and pleaded:
“Won’t you let me take a cab and ride you to the hotel?”
Sheila thanked him No, and Mrs. Vining finished him off:
“Young man, if you’re going to be an actor you must learn to practise
small economies—especially in small towns where you gain nothing by
extravagance. You never know how short your season may be. The actor who
wastes money on cabs in the winter will be borrowing car fare in the
summer.”
Eldon accepted the repulse as if it were a bouquet. “I see; but at least
you must let me carry your suit-cases.”
Mrs. Vining threw him much the same answer as Tuell: “I’m not so old as
I look, and I travel light.”
He turned to Sheila, whose big carry-all was so heavy that it dragged
one shoulder down. She looked like the picture of somebody or other
carrying a bucket from the well—or was it from a cow? He put out his
hand. She turned aside to dodge him. He followed her closely and finally
wrested the suit-case from her. Seeing his success, Mrs. Vining yielded
him hers also. He let Pennock trudge with hers. And so they walked to
the hotel and marched up to the desk.
Jaffer and Tuell had already registered. Eldon thought they might at
least have waited till the ladies had had first choice. He was surprised
to hear Sheila and Mrs. Vining haggling over the prices of lodging and
choosing rooms of moderate cost.
He had no chance to speak to them at the performance or after it, but
the next morning he hung about the lobby till train-time. He pretended
much surprise at seeing Sheila,—as if he had not been waiting for her!
He was a bad actor. Again he secured the carry-all in spite of her
protests. If he had known more he would have seen that she gave up to
avoid a battle. But she dropped back with Pennock and left him to walk
with Mrs. Vining, who did not hesitate to assail him with her usual
directness:
“Young man, you’re very nice and you mean very well, but you’ve got a
lot to learn. Have you noticed that when the company gets into a train
or a public dining-room, everybody settles as far away as possible from
everybody else?”
Eldon had noticed it. It had shocked him. Mrs. Vining went on:
“And no doubt you’ve seen a big, husky actor let a poor, tired actress
drag her own baggage to a far-off hotel.”
Eldon had noted that, too, with deep regret. He was astounded when Mrs.
Vining said:
“Well, that actor is showing that actress the finest courtesy he can.
When men and women are traveling this way on business, the man who is
attentive to a woman is doing her a very dubious kindness, unless
they’re married or expect to be.”
“Why?” said Eldon. “Can’t he pay her ordinary human courtesy?”
“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Vining, “or he’ll start the other members
of the company and the gaping crowd of outsiders to whispering: ‘Oh,
he’s carrying her valise now! It’s a sketch!’”
“A ‘sketch’?” Eldon murmured.
“Yes, a—an alliance, an affair. A theatrical troupe is like a little
village on wheels. Everybody gossips. Everybody imagines—builds a big
play out of a little scenario. And so the actor who is a true gentleman
has to keep forgetting that he is one. It’s a penalty we women must pay
for earning our livings. You see now, don’t you, Mr. Eldon?”
He bowed and blushed to realize that it was all meant as a rebuke to his
forwardness. He had been treated with consideration, and had immediately
proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. He had no right to carry
Sheila’s burdens, and his insistence had been only an embarrassment to
her. He had behaved like a greedy porter at a railroad station to whom
one surrenders with wrath in order to silence his demands.
He had not progressed so far as he thought. His train had been ordered
to back up. When he had placed Sheila’s baggage and Mrs. Vining’s in the
seats they chose in the day coach, he declined Sheila’s invitation to
sit down, and sulked in the smoking-car.
The towns that followed Milton were as stupid as Jaffer had said they
were. The people who lived there seemed to love them, or at least they
did not leave them, but they were dry oases for the lonely traveler. Few
of the towns had even a statue, and most of those that had statues would
have been the richer for their absence.
Of one thing Eldon made sure—that he would never inflict another of his
compromising politenesses on Miss Sheila Kemble. He avoided her so
ostentatiously that the other members of the company noticed it. Those
who had instantly said when he carried her valise, “Aha! he is carrying
her valise now!” were presently saying, “Oh, he’s not carrying her
valise now!”