Were it not for hours like these, the hope of them or the memory of
them, few people would continue to trudge the dolorous road of the
playwright. Such hours come rarely and they do not linger unspoiled, but
they are glimpses of heaven while they last. It was not for long that
Vickery and Sheila were left seated upon the sunny side of Saturn with
the rings of unearthly glory swirling round them.
Their return to earth was all the more jolting for the distance they had
to fall.
Sheila saw Eldon turn away in a sudden rancor of jealousy. She saw Reben
turn swart with rage. His cruel mouth twisted into a sneer, and when
Vickery turned to him with the gratitude of a child to a rescuing angel
Reben’s comments wiped the smile off Vickery’s rosy face and left it
white and sick.
Sheila suffered all her own shocks and vicariously those of each of the
three she had embroiled. She suffered most for the young creator who had
seen that his work was good but must yet hear Satan’s critique. And
Reben looked like a wise and haughty Lucifer when in answer to Vickery’s
appealing “Well?” he said:
“Well, you certainly got over—here. They like it. No doubt of that. But
they liked ‘The Nautilus.’ It broke all records here in Clinton and
lasted two nights in New York.
“You mustn’t let ’em fool you, my boy. This stock company is a kind of
religion to these yokels. They snap up whatever you throw ’em the way a
sea-lion snaps up a fish. Anything on God’s earth will go here. Just
copper your bets all round. Whatever went here will flop in New York,
and _vice versa_. Did you hear ’em howl at that old wheeze in the first
act? Broadway would throw the seats at you if you sprung it. The one
scene that fell flat to-night is the one scene worth keeping in.
“You’ve got a lot of work to do. You’d better let me bring Ledley or
somebody down here to whip it into shape. As it stands, I don’t see how
I can use it. Look me up next time you’re in town—if you can bring me
some new ideas.”
Then he turned to Sheila and, taking her by that dangerous elbow, led
her aside and murdered her joy. He was perfectly sincere about his
distrust of the piece. He had seen so many false hopes come up like
violets in the snow, only to wither at the first sharp weather.
He answered Sheila’s defiant “Say it” with another icy blast:
“You poor child!” he said. “You were awful. I want you to close with
this stock company and take a good rest. You’re all frayed out. You
looked a hundred years old and you played like a hack-horse. That man
Eldon was the only one of you who played up to form. He’s a discovery.
Now I’m going back to town to see if I can get a real play for you, and
you run along home to your papa and mamma and see if you can’t get back
your youth. But don’t be discouraged.” Having absolutely crushed her, he
told her not to be discouraged.
When he had pointed out that the laurel crowns were really composed of
poison ivy he waved a cheerful good-by and hurried off to catch the
midnight train to New York.
* * * * *
Sheila turned the eyes of utter wretchedness upon Vickery, in whose face
was the look of a stricken stag. They had planned to take supper
together, but she begged off. She felt that it was kinder.
Besides, Vickery would have to work all night. The stage director had
told him that he must cut at least an hour out of the manuscript before
the special rehearsal next morning. And the cuts must be made in chunks
because the company had to begin rehearsals at once of the next week’s
bill, an elaborate production of one of Mr. Cohan’s farces, in his
earlier manner.
As Sheila left the stage she met Eldon staring at her hungrily. Reben
had not spoken to him. Sheila had to tell him that the manager’s only
praise was for him. But he could get no pleasure from the bouquet
because it included rue for Sheila:
“He’s a liar. You were magnificent!” Eldon cried.
“Thank you, Floyd,” she sighed, and, smiling at grief like Patience,
shook her head sadly and went to her dressing-room. She was almost too
bankrupt of strength to take off her make-up. She worked drearily and
smearily in disgust, leaving patches of color here and there. Then she
slipped into a mackintosh and stumbled to the waiting carriage.
When she got to her room she let Pennock take off the mackintosh and her
shoes and stockings; she was asleep almost before she finished
whimpering her only prayer:
“O God, help me to quit the stage—forever. Amen!”
Pennock stared at her dismally and saw that even her slumber was shaken
with little sobs.