Sheila was late at the rehearsal the next morning, and so dejected that
she hardly felt regret at hearing Vickery tell her how many of her
favorite scenes had to be omitted because they were not essential.
Vickery held command of the company with the plucky misery of a Napoleon
retreating from his Moscow.
When this rehearsal was over the director told Sheila that she need not
stay to rehearse the next week’s bill, since Reben had asked him to
release her from further work. He had telegraphed to New York for a
woman who had played the same part with great success, and received
answer that she would be able to step in without inconvenience. Sheila
was dolefully relieved. She felt that she could never have learned
another rôle. She felt almost grateful to Reben. “My brain has stopped,”
she told Pennock; “just stopped.”
The Tuesday afternoon matinée was always the worst of the week. The heat
was like a persecution. The actors played havoc with cues and lines, and
the suffocated audience was too indifferent to know or care.
After the performance Vickery was so lost to hope that he grew sardonic.
He said with a tormented smile:
“It’s a pity Reben didn’t stay over. If he had seen how badly this
performance went he would have sworn that the play would run a year on
his dear damned Broadway. I’m going to telegraph him so.”
Tuesday night the house was again poor, though better than at the
matinée. The company settled down into harness like draught-horses
beginning a long pull. The laughter was feeble and not focused. It was
indeed so scattered that the voice of one man was audible above the
rest.
Out of the silences or the low murmurs of laughter resounded the
gigantic roars of this single voice. People in the audience twisted
about to see who it was. The people on the stage were confused at first,
and later amused. They also made more or less concealed efforts to place
the fellow.
By and by the audience began to catch the contagion of his mirth. It
laughed first at his laughter, and then at the play. During the third
act the piece was going so well that it was impossible to pick out any
individual noise.
After the last curtain a number of townspeople went back on the stage to
tell Sheila how much they liked the play, and especially her work. They
had read the glowing criticisms in the morning and evening papers. They
had not heard what Reben had said of what Broadway would say. They would
not have cared. Broadway was suspect in Clinton.
These bouquets had the savor of artificial flowers to Sheila, but she
enacted the rôle of gratitude to the best of her ability. Back of the
knot surrounding her she saw Vickery standing with a towering big fellow
evidently waiting to be presented. Then she saw Eldon shaking hands with
the stranger.
Bret Winfield was suffering from stage-fright. He had met Vickery in New
York and had promised to run down to see his play, and incidentally to
square himself with the girl he had frightened. In the generally
disheveled state of brains that characterizes a playwright during
rehearsal, Vickery had neglected to tell Winfield that the company
contained also the man that Winfield had vowed to square himself with.
When, years before at Leroy, Eldon, as the taxicab-driver, had floated
Winfield over the footlights, he had worn a red wig and disguising
make-up. When Winfield saw him on the stage as a handsome youth
perfectly groomed, there was no resemblance. Eldon’s name was on the
program, but Winfield was one of those who pay little heed to programs,
prefaces, and title-pages. He was one of those who never know the names
of the authors, actors, composers, printers, and architects whose work
pleases them. They “know what they like,” but they never know who made
it.
As he waited to reach Sheila, Winfield noted Eldon standing in a little
knot of admirers of his own. He said to Vickery, with that elegance of
diction which has always distinguished collegians:
“That lad who played your hero is a great little actor, ’Gene. He’s
right there all the time. I’d like to slip it to him.”
Vickery absently led him to Eldon and introduced the two, swallowing
both names. The two powerful hands met in a warm clutch that threatened
to become a test of grip. Winfield poured out his homage:
“You’re certainly one actor, Mr.—er—er— You’ve got a sad, solemn way
of pulling your laughs that made me make a fool of myself.”
“You’re very kind to think so,” said Eldon, overjoyed to get such praise
from a man of such weight. And he crushed Winfield’s fingers with a
power that enhanced the layman’s respect still further. Winfield crushed
back with all his might as he repeated:
“Yes, sir. You’re sure some comedian, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Eldon,” said Eldon.
Winfield’s grip relaxed so unexpectedly that Eldon almost cracked a bone
or two before he could check his muscles. Winfield turned white and red
in streaks and said:
“Eldon? Your name’s Eldon?”
Eldon nodded.
“Are you the Eldon that knocked a fellow about my size about ten yards
for a touch-down across the footlights once?”
Eldon blushed to find his prowess fame, and said: “Yes. Once.”
“Well, I’m the fellow,” said Winfield, trying to call his ancient grudge
to the banquet. “I’ve been looking for you ever since. I promised myself
the pleasure of beating you up.”
Eldon laughed: “Well, here I am. I’ve been ashamed of it for a long
time. I took an unfair advantage of you.”
“Advantage nothing,” said Winfield. “I ought to have been on my guard.”
“Well,” Eldon suggested. “Suppose I stand down here on the apron of the
stage and let you have a whack at me. See if you can put me into the
orchestra chairs farther than I put you.”
Winfield sighed. “Hell! I can’t hit you now. I’ve shaken hands with you,
unbeknownst. I guess it’s all off. I couldn’t slug a man that made me
laugh so hard. Shake!”
He put out his hand and the enemies gripped a truce. Winfield was
laughing, but there was a bitterness in his laugh. He had been struck in
the face and he could not requite the debt.
* * * * *
Then Vickery called him to where Sheila, having rid herself of her
admirers, was making ready to leave the stage.
“Miss Kemble, I want to present my old friend, Mr. Bret Winfield. He’s
been dying to meet you again for a long while.”
“Again?” thought Sheila, but she said, as if to her oldest friend: “Oh,
I’m delighted! I haven’t seen you since—since— Chicago, wasn’t it?”
Vickery laughed and explained: “Guess again! You’ve met before, but you
were never introduced.”
Slowly Sheila understood. She stared up at Winfield and cried, “This
isn’t the man who—”
“I’m the little fellow,” said Winfield, enfolding her hand in a clasp
like a boxing-glove. “I scared you pretty badly, I’m afraid. But Vickery
tells me he told you my intentions were honorable. I’ve come to
apologize.”
“Oh, please don’t! I’m the one that ought to. I made an awful idiot of
myself; but, you see, I was afraid you were going to—to—well, kidnap
me.”
“I wish I could now!”
“Kidnap me?” Sheila gasped with a startled frown-smile, drawing her
brows down and her lips up.
He lowered his high head and his low voice to murmur, with an impudence
that did not offend her, “You’re too darned nice to waste your gifts on
the public.”
“Waste them!—on the public?” Sheila mocked. “And what ought I to do
with them, then?”
He spoke very earnestly. “Invest them in a nice quiet home. You oughtn’t
to be slaving away like this to amuse a good-for-nothing mob. You let
some big husky fellow do the work and build you a pretty home. Then you
just stay home and—and—bloom for him—like a rose on a porch. I tell
you if I had you I’d lock you up where the crowds couldn’t see you.”
Sheila put back her head and laughed at the utter ridiculousness of such
insolence. Then her laugh stopped short. The word “home” got her by the
throat. And the words “bloom just for him” brought sudden dew to her
eyes.
She had hurt Winfield by her laughter. Under the raillery of it he had
muttered a curt “Good night” without heeding her sudden softness.
He had rejoined Eldon and Vickery. Of the three tall men he was the
least gifted, the least spiritual. But he was the only one of the three,
the only one of all her admirers, who had not urged her forward on this
weary climb up the sun-beaten hill. He was the only one who had
suggested twilight and peace and home.
At any other time his counsel would have wakened her fiery dissent. Now
in her fatigue and her loneliness it soothed her like the occasional
uncanny wisdom of a fool.