"Why not? It's great fun--now. I used to think it pretty tragic
sometimes. Yes, I was nineteen when I went on the New England rural
circuit--to give it a better name. Oh, I've been through all the steps!
As soon as I felt a little secure about mother, I ventured to New York
in answer to advertisements in _The Reflector_, and went out 'on the
road' at 'fifteen per.'" These slang phrases seemed humorous as they
came from her smiling lips, but Douglass knew some little part of the
toil and discomfort they stood for.
Her eyes danced with fun. "I played _The Lady of Lyons_ in a 'kitchen
set,' and the death-scene in _East Lynne_ before a 'wood drop.' And my
costumes were something marvellous, weren't they, mother? Well, this
lasted two seasons--summer seasons; while I continued to read in winter
in order to indulge my passion for the stage in summer and early autumn.
Then I secured a small part in a real company, and at a salary that
permitted me to send some money home. I knocked about the country this
way two seasons more--that makes me twenty-two. I knew the office of
every manager in New York by this time, but had been able to reach an
audience with but one or two. They were kind enough, but failed to 'see
anything' in me, as the phrase goes; and I was quite disheartened. Oh,
'the Rialto'!" Her face clouded and her voice softened. "It is a
brilliant and amusing place to the successful, but to the girl who walks
it seeking a theatrical engagement it is a heartless and cruel place.
You can see them there to-day--girls eager and earnest and ready to work
hard and conscientiously--haunting the agencies and the anterooms of the
managers just as I did in those days--only five years ago."
"It seems incredible," exclaimed Douglass. "I thought you came here from
a London success."
"So I did, and that is the miraculous chapter of my story. I went to
London with Farnum--with only a little part--but McLennan saw me and
liked my work, and asked me to take the American adventuress in his new
play. And then--my fortune was made. The play was only a partial
success, but my own position was established. I continued to play the
gay and evil-minded French and Russian woman of the English stage till I
was tired of them. Then I tried _Joan of Arc_ and _Charlotte Corday_.
The public forced me back to _The Baroness Telka_, and to wealth and
great fame; and then I read your little book, which seemed directed
straight to me, and I asked Hugh to write you--now you have the 'story
of me life.' I have had no struggle since--only hard work and great
acclaim." She faced her mother with a proud smile. Then her face
darkened. "But--there is always a but--I want New York to know me in
some better way. I'm tired of these women with cigarettes and spangled
dinner-gowns."
She laid her hand again on her mother's knee, and the gentle old fingers
closed around the firm, smooth wrist.
"I've told mother that I will cut these rôles out. We are at last in a
position to do as we please. I am now waiting for something worth while
to come to me. That is my present situation, Mr. Douglass. I don't know
why I've been so frank. Now let me hear your play."
He flushed a little. "To tell the truth, I find it rather hard to begin.
I feel as though I were re-enacting a worn-out scene in some way. Every
other man in the car writes plays nowadays and torments his friends by
reading to them, which, I admit, is an abominable practice. However, as
I came here for that express purpose, I will at least outline my
scenario."
"Didn't you bring the play itself?"
"Yes; but, really, I hesitate. It may bore you to death."
"You could not write a play that would bore me--I am sure of that."
"Very well," he soberly answered, and drew forth his manuscript. As if
upon signal, the mother and her son rose to withdraw. "You are entirely
justified," said Douglass, with some humor. "I quite understand your
feelings."
"We should like very much to hear it, but--"
"No excuses, I beg of you. I wonder at Miss Merival's hardihood. I am
quite sure she will live to repent her temerity."
In this spirit of banter the playwright and the star were left alone
with the manuscript of the play. As he read on, Douglass was carried out
of his own impassivity by the changes in the face before him. It became
once more elusive, duskily mysterious in its lines. A reflective shadow
darkened the glorious eyes, veiled by drooping lids. Without knowing it,
the actress took on from moment to moment the heart-trials of the woman
of the play. In a subconscious way even as he read, Douglass analyzed
and understood her power. Hers was a soul of swift and subtle sympathy.
A word, a mere inflection, was sufficient to set in motion the most
complicate and obscure conceptions in her brain, permitting her to
comprehend with equal clarity the Egyptian queen of pleasure and the
austere devotee to whom joy is a snare. From time to time she uttered
little exclamations of pleasure, and at the end of each act motioned him
to proceed, as if eager to get a unified impression.
It was after eleven o'clock when he threw down the manuscript, and,
white with emotion, awaited her verdict. She was tense with the strain,
and her lashes were wet with tears, but her eyes were bright and her
mind alert. She had already entered upon a new part, having been swept
up into a region of resolution as far away from the pleasant hostess as
from the heartless adventuress whose garments she had worn but the night
before. With hands clasped between her knees, and shoulders laxly
drooping, she brooded on the sorrows of his mimic world.
"I will do your play," she said at last. "I will do it because I believe
in its method and because I think it worthy of my highest powers."
The blood rushed to the playwright's throat and a smarting heat dimmed
his eyes. He spoke with difficulty. "I thank you," he said, hoarsely.
"It is more than I expected; and now that you have promised to do it, I
feel you ought not to take the risk." He could say no more, overcome by
the cordial emphasis of her decision.
"There is a risk, I will be frank with you; but your play is worth it. I
have not been so powerfully moved in years. You have thrilled me. Really
I cannot tell you how deeply your theme has sunk into my heart. You have
the Northern conscience--so have I; that is why I rebel at being merely
the plaything of a careless public. Yes, I will do your play. It is a
work of genius. I hope you wrote it in a garret. It's the kind of thing
to come from a diet of black bread and water."
He smiled. "I live in a sort of garret, and my meals are frequently
beans and brown bread. I hope that will do."
"I am glad the bread is at least brown.... But you are tired. Leave the
manuscript with me." He rose and she moved towards him with a gesture
of confidence which made words impossible to him. "When we meet again I
want you to tell me something of yourself.... Good-night. You will hear
from me soon." She was regal as she said this--regal in her own proper
person, and he went away rapt with wonder and admiration of the real
Helen Merival as she now stood revealed to him.
"She is greater than my dreams of her," he said, in a sort of rapture as
he walked the street. "She is greater than she herself can know; for her
genius is of the subtle, unspeakable deeps--below her own consciousness,
beyond her own analysis. How much greater her art seems, now that I have
seen her. It is marvellous! She will do my play, and she will
succeed--her power as an actress would carry it to a success if it were
a bad play, which it is not. My day has dawned at last."
* * * * *
Helen went to bed that night with a consciousness that something new and
powerful had come into her life. Not merely the play and her
determination to do it moved her--the man himself profoundly impressed
her. His seriousness, his decision and directness of utterance, and the
idealism which shone from his rugged, boyish face remained with her to
the verge of sleep. He was very handsome, and his voice singularly
beautiful, but his power to charm lay over and beyond these. His sincere
eyes, his freedom from flippant slang, these impressed her with a sense
of his reliability, his moral worth.
"He is stern and harsh, but he is fine," she said to her mother next
morning, "and his play is very strong. I am going to do it. You will
like the part of _Lillian_. It has the Scotch sense of moral
responsibility in it."