VIII

Deprivation of Helen's companionship even for a day produced in Douglass

such longing that his hours were misery, and, though Sunday was long and

lonely, Monday stretched to an intolerable length. He became greatly

disturbed, and could neither work nor sit still, so active was his

imagination. He tried to sleep, but could not, even though his nerves

were twitching for want of it; and at last, in desperate resolution, he

set himself the task of walking to Grant's tomb and back, in the hope

that physical weariness would benumb his restless brain. This good

result followed. He was in deep slumber when the bell-boy rapped at his

door and called, "Half-past six, sir."

He sprang up, moved by the thought, "In two hours Helen will be entering

upon that first great scene," and for the first time gave serious

consideration to the question of an audience. "I hope Westervelt has

neglected nothing. It would be shameful if Helen played to a single

empty seat. I will give tickets away on the sidewalk rather than have it

so. But, good Heavens, such a condition is impossible!"

After dressing with great care, he hastened directly to the theatre. It

was early, and as he stepped into the entrance he found only the

attendants, smiling, expectant, in their places. A doubt of success

filled him with sudden weakness, and he slipped out on the street again,

not caring to be recognized by any one at that hour. "They will laugh at

my boyish excitement," he said, shamefacedly.

Broadway, the chief thoroughfare of the pleasure-seekers of all

America, was just beginning to thicken with life. The cafés were sending

forth gayly dressed groups of diners jovially crowding into their

waiting carriages. Automobiles and cabs were rushing northward to meet

the theatre-goers of the up-town streets, while the humbler patrons of

the "family circles" and "galleries" of the play-houses lower down were

moving southward on foot, sharing for a few moments in the brilliancy

and wealth of the upper avenue. The surface cars, clamorous, irritable,

and timid, jammed at the crossings like sheep at a river-ford, while

overhead the electric trains thundered to and fro, crowded with other

citizens also theatre-bound. It seemed that the whole metropolis, alert

to the drama, had flung its health and wealth into one narrow stream,

and yet, "in all these thousands of careless citizens, who thinks of

_Lillian's Duty_?" thought the unnerved playwright.

"What do these laughing, insatiate amusement-seekers care about any

one's duty? They are out to enjoy life. They are the well-to-do, the

well-fed, the careless livers. Many of them are keen, relentless

business-men wearied by the day's toil. They are now seeking relaxation,

and not at all concerned with acquiring wisdom or grace. They are,

indeed, the very kind of men to whom my play sets the cold steel, and

their wives, of higher purpose, of gentler wills, are, nevertheless,

quite as incapable of steady and serious thought. Not one of them has

any interest in the problem I have set myself to delineate."

He was saved from utter rout by remembrance of Helen. He recalled the

Wondrous Woman as she had seemed to him of old, striving to regain his

former sense of her power, her irresistible fascination. He assured

himself that her indirect influence over the city had been proven to be

enormous, almost fantastic, though her worshippers knew the real woman

not at all, allured only by the aureoled actress. Yes, she would

triumph, even if the play failed, for they would see her at last in a

congenial rôle wherein her nobility, her intellectual power would be

given full and free expression. Her appeal to her worshippers would be

doubled.

When he returned to the theatre a throng of people filled the

entrance-way, and he was emboldened to pass in--even bowed to the

attendants and to Hugh, who stood in the lobby, in shining raiment, a

_boutonnière_ in his coat, his face radiating confidence and pride.

"We've got 'em coming," he announced, with glee. "We are all sold

out--not a seat left, and only the necessary 'paper' out. They're

curious to see her in a new rôle. You are made!"

"I hope so," replied the playwright, weakly. "Tuesday night tells the

story."

Hugh laughed. "Why, man, I believe you're scared. We're all right. I can

sniff victory in the air."

This confidence, so far from inspiriting Douglass, still further

depressed him, and he passed in and on up into the second gallery,

where he had privately purchased a reserved seat with intent to sense

for himself the feeling of the upper part of the house during the first

act. Keeping his muffler pinned close so that his evening dress escaped

notice, he found his way down to the railing quite secure from

recognition by any one at the peep-hole of the curtain or in the boxes,

and there took his seat to watch the late-comers ripple down the aisles.

He was experienced enough to know that "first-nighters" do not always

count and that they are sometimes false prophets, and yet he could not

suppress a growing exaltation as the beautiful auditorium filled with

men and women such as he had himself often called "representative," and,

best of all, many of the city's artists and literarians were present.

He knew also that the dramatic critics were assembling, jaded and worn

with ceaseless attendance on worthless dramas, a condition which should

have fitted them for the keener enjoyment of any fresh, original work,

but he did not deceive himself. He knew from their snarling onslaughts

on plays he had praised that they were not to be pleased with

anything--at least not all of them at the same time. That they were

friendly to Helen he knew, that they would praise her he was assured,

but that they would "slate" his play he was beginning to find

inevitable.

As the curtain rose on the first scene he felt the full force of Helen's

words, "You won't enjoy the performance at all." He began now to pay for

the joy he had taken in her companionship. He knew the weakness of every

actor, and suffered with them and for them. Royleston from the first

tortured him by mumbling his lines, palpably "faking" at times. "The

idiot, he'll fail to give his cues!" muttered Douglass. "He'll ruin the

play." The children scared him also, they were so important to Helen at

the close of the act.

At last the star came on--so quietly that the audience did not at the

moment recognize her, but when those nearest the stage started a

greeting to her it was taken up all over the shining house--a

magnificent "hand."

Never before had Helen Merival appeared before an audience in character

so near her own good self, and the lovely simplicity of her manner came

as a revelation to those of her admirers who had longed to know more of

her private character. For several minutes they applauded while she

smilingly bowed, but at last the clapping died away, and each auditor

shrugged himself into an easy posture in his chair, waiting for the

great star to take up her rôle.

This she did with a security and repose of manner which thrilled

Douglass in spite of his intimate knowledge of her work at rehearsals.

The subtlety of her reading, the quiet, controlled precision and grace

of her action restored his confidence in her power. "She has them in her

hand. She cannot fail."

The act closed triumphantly, though some among the audience began to

wince. Helen came before the curtain several times, and each time with

eyes that searched for some one, and Douglass knew with definiteness

that she sought her playwright in order that she might share her triumph

with him. But a perverse mood had seized him. "This is all very well,

but wait till the men realize the message of the play," he muttered, and

lifted the programme to hide his face.

A buzz of excited comment rose from below, and though he could not hear

a word beyond the water-boy's call he was able to imagine the comment.

"Why, how lovely! I didn't suppose Helen Merival could do a sweet,

domestic thing like that."

"Isn't her gown exquisite? I've heard she is a dainty dresser in real

life, quite removed from the kind of thing she wears on the stage. I

wish she were not so seclusive. I'd like to know her."

"But do you suppose this is her real self?"

"It must be. She doesn't seem to be acting at all. I must say I prefer

her in her usual parts."

"She's wonderful as _The Baroness_."

"I never let my daughters see her in those dreadful characters--they are

too bold; but they are both here to-night. I understood it was to be

quite a departure."

Douglass, knowing well that Hugh and the manager were searching for him,

sat with face bent low until the lights were again lowered. "Now comes

the first assault. Now we will see them wince."

The second act was distinctly less pleasing to those who sat below him

in the orchestra and dress circle. Applause was still hearty, but it

lacked the fervor of the first act. He could see men turn and whisper to

one another now and then. They laughed, of course, and remarked each to

the other, "Brown, you're getting a 'slat' to-night."

"They are cheering the actress, not the play," observed the author.

The gallery, less sensitive or more genuinely patriotic, thundered on,

applauding the lines as well as the growing power of Helen's

impersonation. Royleston was at last beginning to play, the fumes of his

heavy dinner having cleared away. He began to grip his lines, and that

gave the star her first opportunity to forget his weakness and throw

herself into her part. All in all, only a very discriminating ear could

have detected a falling-off of favor in this act. The curtain was lifted

four times, and a few feeble cries for the author were heard, chiefly

from the first balcony.

Here was the point whereat his hoped-for triumph was to have begun, but

it did not. He was touched by an invisible hand which kept him to his

seat, though he knew that Helen was waiting for him to receive,

hand-in-hand with her, the honors of the act.

Some foreknowledge of defeat clarified the young author's vision, and a

bitter melancholy crept over him as the third act unrolled. "They will

go out," he said to himself, "and they will not come back for the last

act. The play is doomed to disaster." And a flame of hatred rose in his

heart against the audience. "They are brutes!" he muttered.

The scenes were deeply exciting, the clash of interest upon interest was

swift, novel in sequence, and most dramatic in outcome, but the applause

was sharp and spasmodic, not long continued and hearty as before. Some

of the men who had clapped loudest at the opening now sat gnawing their

mustaches in sullen resentment.

Douglass divined their thought: "This is a confidence game. We came to

be amused, and this fellow instructs in sociology. We didn't cough up

two dollars to listen to a sermon; we came to be rested. There's trouble

enough in the street without displaying it in a place of amusement. The

fellow ought to be cut out."

Others ceased to cheer because both acting and play had mounted beyond

their understanding. Its grim humor, its pitiless character-drawing,

wearied them. Audience and play, speaking generally, were at

cross-purposes. A minority, it was true, caught every point, shouting

with great joy, and a few, who disapproved of the play, but were most

devoted admirers of Helen's art, joined half-heartedly in their

applause. But the act closed dismally, notwithstanding its tremendous

climax. A chill east wind had swept over the auditorium and a few

sensitive souls shivered. "What right has Helen Merival to do a thing

like this? What possesses her? It must be true that she is infatuated

with this young man and produces his dreadful plays to please him."

"They say she is carried away with him. He's very handsome, they tell

me. I wish they'd call him out."

A buzz of complaining talk on the part of those aggrieved filled in the

interlude. The few who believed in the drama were valiant in its

defence, but their arguments did not add to the good-will of those who

loved the actress but detested the play.

"This won't do," said the most authoritative critic, as a detachment

lined up at the bar of the neighboring saloon. "Merival must lop off

this young dramatist or he'll 'queer' her with her best friends. She

mustn't attempt to force this kind of thing down our throats."

"He won't last a week," said another.

Their finality of tone resembled that of emperors and sultans in

counsel.

Douglass, sitting humped and motionless among his gallery auditors, was

clearly aware that Helen was weary and agitated, yet he remained in his

seat, his brain surging with rebellious passion.

His perverse pride was now joined by shame, who seized him by the other

arm and held him prisoner. He felt like fleeing down the fire-escape.

The thought of running the gauntlet of the smirking attendants, the

possibility of meeting some of the exultant dramatic critics, most of

whom were there to cut him to pieces, revolted him. Their joyous grins

were harder to face than cannon, therefore he cowered in his place

during the long wait, his mind awhirl, his teeth set hard.

There were plenty of empty seats in the orchestra when the curtain

lifted on the last act. Several of the critics failed to return. The

playwright dared not look at his watch, for the scenes were dragging

interminably. His muscles ached with the sort of fatigue one feels when

riding in a slow train, and he detected himself pushing with his feet as

if to hurry the action. The galleries did not display an empty bench,

but he took small comfort in this, for he was not a believer in the

old-time theory of pleasing the gallery. "In this city the two-dollar

seats must be filled," he said. "Helen is ruined if she loses them."

He began to pity her and to blame himself. "What right had I to force my

ferocious theories upon her?" he asked himself, and at the moment it

seemed that he had completely destroyed her prestige. She was plainly

dispirited, and her auditors looked at one another in astonishment.

"Can this sad woman in gray, struggling with a cold audience and a group

of dismayed actors, be the brilliant and beautiful Helen Merival?"

That a part of this effect--most of it, in fact--lay in the rôle of

_Lillian_ they had not penetration enough to distinguish; they began to

doubt whether she had ever been the very great success and the powerful

woman they had supposed her to be.

The play did not really close, the audience began to dribble out before

the last half of the act began, and the curtain went down on the final

scene while scores of women were putting on their wraps. A loyal few

called Helen before the curtain, and her brave attempt to smile made

every friendly heart bleed.

Douglass, stiff and sore, as one who has been cudgelled, rose with the

crowd and made his way to one of the outside exits, eager to escape

recognition, to become one of the indistinguishable figures of the

street.

A couple of tousled-headed students going down the stairway before him

tossed him his first and only crumb of comfort. "It won't go, of

course," said one, in a tone of conviction, "but it's a great play all

the same."

"Right, old man," replied the other, with the decision of a master.

"It's too good for this town. What New York wants is a continuous

variety show."

Douglass knew keenly, deeply, that Helen needed him--was looking for

him--but the thought of those who would be near at their meeting made

his entrance of the stage door impossible. He walked aimlessly, drifting

with the current up the street, throbbing, tense, and hot with anger,

shame, and despair. At the moment all seemed lost--his play, his own

position, and Helen. Helen would surely drop him. The incredible had

happened--he had not merely defeated himself, he had brought battle and

pain and a stinging reproof to a splendid, triumphant woman. The

enormous egotism involved in this he did not at the moment apprehend. He

was like a wounded animal, content merely to escape.

He longed to reach her, to beg her pardon, to absolve her from any

promise, and yet he could not face Westervelt. He revolted at the

thought of meeting Royleston and Miss Carmichael and Hugh. "No; it is

impossible. I will wait for her at the hotel."

At this word he was filled with a new terror. "The clerks and the

bell-boys will have learned of my failure. I cannot face them to-night."

And he turned and fled as if confronted by serpents. "And yet I must

send a message. I must thank Helen and set her free. She must not go

through another such night for my sake."

He ended by dropping into another hotel to write her a passionate note,

which he sent by a messenger:

"Forgive me for the part I have played in bringing this disaster

upon you. I had no idea that anything I could say or do would so

deeply injure you--you the Wondrous One. It was incredible--their

disdain of you. I was a fool, a selfish boaster, to allow you to go

into this thing. The possible loss of money we both discussed, but

that any words of mine could injure you as an artist never came to

me. Believe me, my dearest friend, I am astounded. I am crushed

with the thought, and I dare not show my face among your friends. I

feel like an assassin. I will call to-morrow--I can't do it

to-night. I am bleeding at the heart because I have made you share

the shame and failure which I feel to-night are always to be mine.

I was born to be of the minority. Please don't give another thought

to me or my play. Go your own way. Get back to the plays that

please people. Be happy. You have the right to be happy, and I am a

selfish, unthinking criminal whom you would better forget. Don't

waste another dollar or another moment on my play--it is madness.

I am overwhelmed with my debt to you, but I shall repay it some

day."