The impromptu epilogue to the play and the abandonment of the theater by
the young star had occurred too late to reach the next morning’s papers.
The evening sheets were sure to make a spread. The actors were bound to
gossip, and the stage-hands. Somebody would tell some reporter and gain
a little credit or a little excitement. Therefore almost everybody would
join in the race for publication.
Reben understood this, and he held a council of war with Starr Coleman
as to the best form of presentation. He had a natural and not
unjustified desire to have the story do the least possible harm to his
play. He collaborated with his press agent for hours over the campaign,
and they decided upon a formal telegram to be given to the Associated
Press and the other bureaus. They would flash it to all the crannies of
the continent. It was too bad that such easy publicity should be wasted
on an expiring instead of a rising star.
For the Chicago papers Reben decided upon an interview which he would
give with seeming reluctance at the solicitation of Coleman on behalf of
the reporters.
The loss of Sheila was a serious blow. The problem was whether or not
“Hamlet” could succeed with Hamlet omitted; or, rather, if “As You Like
It” would prosper without Rosalind.
Reben had been tempted to close the theater at once; then get Winfield’s
money out of him if he had to levy on his father’s business, which, the
manager had learned, was big and solvent.
But his egotism revolted at such a procedure, and in a fine burst of
pride he had written the letter to Bret and, tearing the “I O U” to
shreds, sealed it in. At the same time he resolved not to give up the
ship. It was never easy to tell who made the success of a play. He had
known road companies to take in more money without a famous star than
with one.
He rounded up Batterson, got him out of bed, and sent for Dulcie Ormerod
to meet him in the deserted hotel parlor and begin rehearsals at once.
She could make up her sleep later in the day or next week. Then he went
to his own bed.
Sometimes luck conspires with the brave. The first stage-hand who met
the first early morning reporter and sold him the story for a drink had
the usual hazy idea one brings away from a fist-battle. According to him
Winfield had come back on the stage drunk and started a row by striking
at Mr. Eldon.
Eldon knocked Winfield backward into the arms of Batterson and McNish,
and would have finished him off if Sheila had not sheltered him.
Thereupon Eldon ordered Winfield out of the theater, and he retreated
under the protection of his wife, for it seemed that the poor girl had
been deluded into marrying the hound.
The reporter was overjoyed at this glorious find. He hunted up Sheila
and Winfield first. Sheila answered the telephone, and at Bret’s advice
refused to see or be seen. She gave the reporter the message that her
husband had absolutely nothing to say.
It is a safe statement at times, but just now it confirmed the reporter
in a beautiful theory that Eldon had beaten Winfield up so badly that he
was in no condition to be seen.
The reporter found Batterson next and told him his suspicions.
Batterson, surly with wrecked slumber, was pleased to confirm the theory
and make a few additions. He owed Winfield no courtesies.
When Starr Coleman and Reben were found they needed no prompting to set
that snowball rolling and to play up Eldon’s heroism. Coleman added the
excellent thought that Winfield’s motive was one of professional
jealousy because Eldon had run away with the play and the star’s laurels
were threatened. For that reason she had basely deserted the ship; but
the ship would go on. Mr. Reben, in fact, had felt that Miss Kemble was
an unfortunate selection for the play and had already decided to
substitute his wonderful discovery, the brilliant, beautiful Dulcie
Ormerod—photographs herewith.
That was the story that Bret and Sheila read when it occurred to them to
send down for an evening paper. Bret was desperate with rage—rage at
Eldon, at Reben, at the entire press, and the whole world. But he
remembered that his father, who had been a politician, had used as his
motto: “Don’t fight to-day’s paper till next week. You can’t whip a
cyclone. Take to the cellar and it will soon blow over.”
Sheila was frantic with remorses of every variety. She blamed Eldon for
it all. She did not absolve him even when a little note arrived from
him:
DEAR MRS. WINFIELD,—After the exciting events of last night I
overslept this morning. I have but this minute seen the
outrageous stories in the newspapers. I beg you to believe that
I had no part in them and that I shall do what I can to deny the
ridiculous rôle they put upon me.
Yours faithfully,
FLOYD ELDON.
Eldon’s denials were as welcome as denials of picturesque newspaper
stories always are. They were suppressed or set in small type, with
statements that Mr. Eldon very charmingly and chivalrously and with his
characteristic modesty attempted to minimize his share in a most
unpleasant matter.
Bret was so annoyed by a chance encounter with a group of
cross-examining reporters, and found himself so hampered by his
inability to explain his own anger at Eldon and the theater without
implying gross suspicion of his wife’s behavior, that he broke away,
returned to the policy of silence that he ought not to have left, and,
gathering Sheila up, fled with her to his own home.
The play profited by the advertisement, and Dulcie Ormerod slid into the
established rôle like a hand going into a glove several sizes too large.
Eldon was doubly a hero now, and Reben went back to New York with
triumph perched on his cigar.