"Not one."
"Well, they say--"
She stopped him. "Don't tell me what they say--not a word. We did our
best and we did good work, and will do better to-night, so don't come
here like a bird of ill-omen, Herr Westervelt. Go kill the critics if
you feel like it, but don't worry us with tales of woe. Our duty is to
the play. We cannot afford to waste nervous energy writhing under
criticism. What is said is said, and repeating it only hurts us all."
Her tone became friendly. "Really, you take it too hard. It is only a
matter of a few thousand dollars at the worst, and to free you from all
further anxiety I will assume the entire risk. I will rent your
theatre."
"No, no!" cried Hugh. "We can't afford to do that."
"We can't afford to do less. I insist," she replied, firmly.
The manager lifted his fat shoulders in a convulsive shrug. His face
indicated despair of her folly. "Good Gott! Well, you are the doctor,
only remember there will not be one hundred people in the house
to-night." He began to recover speech. "Think of that! Helen Merival
playing to empty chairs--in _my_ theatre. Himmel!"
"It is sad, I confess, but not hopeless, Herr Westervelt. We must work
the harder to let the thoughtful people of the city know what we are
trying to do."
"Thoughtful people!" Again his scorn ran beyond his words for a moment
and his tongue grew German. "Doughtful beople. Dey dondt bay dwo tollors
fer seats! _Our_ pusiness iss to attract the rich--the gay
theatre-goers. Who is going to pring a theatre-barty to see a sermon on
the stage--hay?"
"You are unjust to _Lillian's Duty_. It is not a sermon; it is a
powerful acting play--the best part, from a purely acting standpoint, I
have ever undertaken to do. But we will not discuss that now. The
venture is my own, and you will be safe-guarded. I will instruct my
brother to make the new arrangement at once."
With a final, despairing shrug the manager rose and went out, and Helen,
turning an amused face to Douglass, asked, humorously: "Isn't he the
typical manager?--in the clouds to-day, stuck in the mud to-morrow.
Sometimes he is excruciatingly funny, and then he disgusts me. They're
almost all alike. If business should be unexpectedly good to-night he
would be a man transformed. His face would shine, he would grasp every
actor by the hand, he would fairly fall upon your neck; but if business
went down ten dollars on Wednesday night then look for the 'icy mitt'
again. Big as he is he curls up like a sensitive plant when touched by
adversity. He can't help it; he's really a child--a big, fat boy. But
come, we must now consider the cuts for _Lillian_; then to our
scenario."
As the attendants whisked away the breakfast things Helen brought out
the original manuscript of _Lillian's Duty_, and took a seat beside her
playwright. "Now, what is the matter with the first act?"
"Nothing."
"I agree. What is out in the second?"
"Needs cutting."
"Where?"
"Here and here and here," he answered, turning the leaves rapidly.
"I felt it. I couldn't hold them there. Royleston's part wants the knife
badly. Now, the third act?"
"It is too diffuse, and the sociologic background gets obstinately into
the foreground. As I sat there last night I saw that the interest was
too abstract, too impersonal for the ordinary play-goer. I can better
that. The fourth act must be entirely rewritten. I will do that this
afternoon."
She faced him, glowing with recovered joy and recovered confidence. "Now
you are Richard once again upon his horse."
"A hobby horse," he answered, with a laugh, then sobered. "In truth, my
strength comes from you. At least you roused me. I was fairly in the
grasp of the Evil One when your note came. Your splendid confidence set
me free. It was beautiful of you to write me after I had sneaked away
like a wounded coyote. I cannot tell you what your letter was to me."
She held up a finger. "Hush! No more of that. We are forgetting, and you
are becoming personal." She said this in a tone peculiarly at variance
with the words. "Now read me the scenario of the new play. I am eager to
know what has moved you, set you on high again."
The creative fire began to glow in his eyes. "This is to be as
individual, as poetic, as the other was sociologic. The character you
are to play is that of a young girl who knows nothing of life, but a
great deal of books. _Enid's_ whole world is revealed by the light which
streams from the window of a convent library--a gray, cold light with
deep shadows. She is tall and pale and severe of line, but her blue eyes
are deep and brooding. Her father, a Western mine-owner, losing his
second wife, calls on his daughter to return from the Canadian convent
in which she has spent seven years. She takes her position as an heiress
in his great house. She is plunged at once into the midst of a
pleasure-seeking, thoughtless throng of young people whose interests in
life seem to her to be grossly material. She becomes the prey of
adventurers, male and female, and has nothing but her innate purity to
defend her. Ultimately there come to her two men who type the forces at
war around her, and she is forced to choose between them."
As he outlined this new drama the mind of the actress took hold of
_Enid's_ character, so opposite in energy to _Lillian_, and its great
possibilities exalted her, filled her with admiration for the mind which
could so quickly create a new character.
"I see I shall never want for parts while you are my playwright," she
said, when he had finished.
"Oh, I can write--so long as I have you to write for and to work for,"
he replied. "You are the greatest woman in the world. Your faith in me,
your forgiveness of my cowardice, have given me a sense of power--"
She spoke quickly and with an effort to smile. "We are getting personal
again."