XV

As the opening night of _Enid's Choice_ drew near, Douglass suffered

greater anxiety but experienced far less of nervous excitement than

before. He was shaking rather than tense of limb, and did not find it

necessary to walk the streets to calm his physical excitement. He was

depressed by the knowledge that a second defeat would leave him not

merely discredited but practically penniless. Nevertheless, he did not

hide; on the contrary, he took a seat in one of the boxes.

The audience he at once perceived was of totally different character and

temper from that which greeted _Lillian_. It was quiet and moderate in

size, rather less than the capacity of the orchestra seats, for Helen

had asked that no "paper" be distributed. Very few were in the gallery,

and those who were had the quietly expectant air of students. Only three

of the boxes were occupied. The fashionables were entirely absent.

Plainly these people were in their seats out of interest in the play or

because of the known power of the actress. They were not flushed with

wine nor heavy with late dinners.

The critics were out again in force, and this gave the young author a

little satisfaction, for their presence was indisputable evidence of the

interest excited by the literary value of his work. "I have made a

gain," he said, grimly. "Such men do not go gunning for small deer." But

that they were after blood was shown by the sardonic grins with which

they greeted one another as they strolled in at the door or met in the

aisles. They expected another "killing," and were resolute to be

thorough.

From the friendly shelter of the curtain Douglass could study the house

without being seen, and a little glow of fire warmed his heart as he

recognized five or six of the best-known literary men of the city seated

well down towards the front, and the fifteen minutes' wait before the

orchestra leader took his seat was rendered less painful by his pride in

the really high character of his audience; but when the music blared

forth and the curtain began to rise, his blood chilled with a return of

the fear and doubt which had assailed him at the opening of _Lillian's

Duty_. "It is impossible that I should succeed," was his thought.

However, his high expectation of pleasure from the performance came

back, for he had resolutely kept away from even the dress rehearsal, and

the entire creative force of his lines was about to come to him. "In a

few moments my characters will step forth from the world of the

disembodied into the mellow glow of the foot-lights," he thought, and

the anticipated joy of welcoming them warmed his brain and the chill

clutch of fear fell away from his throat. The dignity and the glow, the

possibilities of the theatre as a temple of literature came to him with

almost humbling force.

He knew that Hugh and the actors had worked night and day towards this

event--not for him (he realized how little they cared for him), but for

Helen. She, dear girl, thought of everybody, and forgot herself in the

event. That Westervelt and Hugh had no confidence in the play, even

after dress rehearsal, and that they had ignored him as he came into the

theatre he knew, but he put these slights aside. Westervelt was busy

incessantly explaining to his intimates and to the critics that he no

longer shared in Merival's "grazy schemes. She guarantees me, orderwise

I would glose my theatre," he said, with wheezy reiteration.

The first scene opened brilliantly in the home of Calvin Wentworth, a

millionaire mine-owner. Into the garish and vulgarly ostentatious

reception-room a pale, sweet slip of a girl drifted, with big eyes

shining with joy of her home-coming. Some of the auditors again failed

to recognize the great actress, so wonderful was her transformation in

look and manner. The critics themselves, dazed for a moment, led in the

cheer which rose. This warmed the house to a genial glow, and the play

started with spirit.

Helen, deeply relieved to see Douglass in the box, advanced towards him,

and their eyes met for an instant in a lovers' greeting. Again that

subtle interchange of fire took place. She looked marvellously young and

light-hearted; it was hard to believe that she was worn with work and

weakened by anxiety. Her eyes were bright and her hands like lilies.

The act closed with a very novel piece of business and some very unusual

lines passing between _Enid_ and _Sidney_, her lover. Towards this

passage Douglass now leaned, uplifted by a sense of power, exulting in

Helen's discernment, which had enabled her to realize, almost perfectly,

his principal characters. He had not begun to perceive and suffer from

the shortcomings of her support; but when _Enid_ left the stage for a

few minutes, the fumbling of the subordinate actors stung and irritated

him. They had the wrong accent, they roared where they should have been

strong and quiet, and the man who played _Sidney_ stuttered and drawled,

utterly unlike the character of the play.

"Oh, the wooden ass!" groaned Douglass. "He'll ruin the piece." A

burning rage swept over him. So much depended on this performance, and

now--"I should have directed the rehearsals. I was a fool to neglect

them. Why does she keep the sot?" And part of his anger flowed out

towards the star.

Helen, returning, restored the illusion, so complete was her assumption

of the part, and the current set swiftly towards that unparalleled

ending, those deeply significant lines which had come to the author only

late in the week, but which formed, indeed, the very key to _Sidney's_

character--they were his chief enthusiasm in this act, suggesting, as

they did, so much. Tingling, aching with pleasurable suspense, the

author waited.

The curtain fell on a totally different effect--with _Sidney_ reading

utterly different lines!

For a moment the author sat stunned, unable to comprehend what had

happened. At last the revelation came. "They have failed to incorporate

the changes I made. They have gone back to the weak, trashy ending which

I discarded. They have ruined the scene utterly!" and, looking at two of

the chief critics, he caught them in the act of laughing evilly, even as

they applauded.

With face set in rage, he made his way back of the curtain towards

Helen's room. She met him at the door, her face shining with joy. "It's

going! It's going!" she cried out, gleefully.

His reply was like a blow in the face. "Why didn't you incorporate that

new ending of the act?" he asked, with bitter harshness.

Helen staggered, and her hands rose as if to shield herself from

violence. She stammered, "I--I--I--couldn't. You see, the lines came so

late. They would have thrown us all out. I will do so to-morrow," she

added.

"To-morrow!" he answered, through his set teeth. "Why to-morrow?

To-night is the time. Don't you see I'm staking my reputation on

to-night? To-night we win or lose. The house is full of critics. They

will write of what we do, not of what we are _going_ to do." He began to

pace up and down, trembling with disappointment and fury. He turned

suddenly. "How about the second act? Did you make those changes in

_Sidney's_ lines? I infer not," he added, with a sneer.

Helen spoke with difficulty, her bosom heaving, her eyes fixed in wonder

and pain on his face. "No. How could I? You brought them only yesterday

morning; they would have endangered the whole act." Then, as the

indignity, the injustice, the burning shame of his assault forced

themselves into her mind, she flamed out in reproach: "Why did you come

back here at all? Why didn't you stay away, as you did before? You are

cruel, heartless!" The tears dimmed her eyes. "You've ruined my whole

performance. You've broken my heart. Have you no soul--no sense of

honor? Go away! I hate you! I'll never speak to you again! I hate you!"

And she turned, leaving him dumb and staring, in partial realization of

his selfish, brutal demands.

Hugh approached him with lowering brows and clinched hands. "You've done

it now. You've broken her nerve, and she'll fail in her part. Haven't

you any sense? We pick you off the street and feed you and clothe

you--and do your miserable plays--and you rush in here and strike my

sister, Helen Merival, in the face. I ought to kick you into the

street!"

Douglass stood through this like a man whose brain is benumbed by the

crashing echoes of a thunderbolt, hardly aware of the fury of the

speaker, but this final threat cleared his mind and stung him into

reply.

"You are at liberty to try that," he answered, and an answering ferocity

shone in his eyes. "I gave you this play; it's good work, and, properly

done, would succeed. Ruin it if you want to. I am done with it and you."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the brother, as the playwright turned away. "Good

riddance to a costly acquaintance."

Hardly had the street door clapped behind the blinded author when Helen,

white and agitated, reappeared, breathlessly asking, "Where is he; has

he gone?"

"Yes; I am glad to say he has."

"Call him back--quick! Don't let him go away angry. I must see him

again! Go, bring him back!"

Hugh took her by the arm. "What do you intend to do--give him another

chance to insult you? He isn't worth another thought from you. Let him

go, and his plays with him."

The orchestra, roaring on its _finale_, ended with a crash. Hugh lifted

his hand in warning. "There goes the curtain, Helen. Go on. Don't let

him kill your performance. Go on!" And he took her by the arm.

The training as well as the spirit and quality of the actress reasserted

their dominion, and as she walked out upon the stage not even the

searching glare of the foot-lights could reveal the cold shadow which

lay about her heart.

When the curtain fell on the final "picture" she fairly collapsed,

refusing to take the curtain call which a goodly number of her auditors

insisted upon. "I'm too tired," she made answer to Hugh. "Too

heart-sick," she admitted to herself, for Douglass was gone with angry

lights in his eyes, bearing bitter and accusing words in his ears. The

temple of amusement was at the moment a place of sorrow, of despair.