"Middle-age Italian intrigue, so Hugh says--bully costumes--a wonder of
a part for Merival."
"Then we are on velvet again," said Royleston.
The influence of the news ran through the action on the stage. The
performance took on spirit and gusto. The audience immediately felt the
glow of the players' enthusiasm, and warmed to both actress and
playwright, and the curtain went down to the most vigorous applause of
the entire run. But Westervelt did not perceive this, so engrossed was
he in the new manuscript. Reading was prodigious labor for him--required
all his attention.
He was at the hotel early the next morning, impatient to see his star.
As he waited he figured on a little pad. His face was flushed as if with
drink. His eyes swam with tears of joy, and when Helen appeared he took
her hand in both his fat pads, crying out:
"My dear lady, we have found you a new play. It is to be a big
production. It will cost a barrel of money to put it on, but it is a
winner. Tell the writer to come on and talk terms."
Helen remained quite cool. "You go too fast, Herr Westervelt. I have not
read the piece. I may not like the title rôle."
The manager winced. "You will like it--you must like it. It is a
wonderful part. The costuming is magnificent--the scenes superb."
"Is there any text?"
Westervelt did not feel the sarcasm. "Excellent text. It is not
Sardou--of course not--but it is of his school, and very well done
indeed. The situations are not new, but they are powerfully worked out.
I am anxious to secure it. If not for you, for some one else."
"Very well. I will read the manuscript. If I like it I will send for the
author."
With this show of tepid interest on the part of his star Westervelt had
to be content. To Hugh he complained: "The influence of that crazy
Douglass is strong with her yet. I'm afraid she will turn down this
part."
Hugh was also alarmed by her indifference, and at frequent intervals
during the day asked how she was getting on with the reading.
To this query she each time replied: "Slowly. I'm giving it careful
thought."
She was, indeed, struggling with her tempted self. She was more deeply
curious to read the manuscript than any one else could possibly be, and
yet she feared to open the envelope which contained it. She did not wish
to be in any sense a party to her lover's surrender. She knew that he
must have written falsely and without conviction to have made such a
profound impression on Westervelt. The very fact that the theme was
Italian, and of the Middle Ages, was a proof of his abandonment of a
cardinal principle, for he had often told her how he hated all that sort
of thing. "What kind of a national drama would that be which dealt
entirely with French or Italian mediæval heroes?" he had once asked,
with vast scorn.
It would win back her former worshippers, she felt sure of that. The
theatre would fill again with men whose palates required the highly
seasoned, the far-fetched. The critics would rejoice in their victory,
and welcome Helen Merival to her rightful place with added fervor. The
bill-boards would glow again with magnificent posters of Helen Merival,
as _Alessandra_, stooping with wild eyes and streaming hair over her
slain paramour on the marble stairway, a dagger in her hand. People
would crowd again behind the scenes at the close of the play. The
magazines would add their chorus of praise.
And over against this stood the slim, poetic figure of _Enid_, so white
of soul, so simple, so elemental of appeal. A whole world lay between
the two parts. All that each stood for was diametrically opposed to the
other. One was modern as the telephone, true, sound, and revealing. The
other false from beginning to end, belonging to a world that never
existed, a brilliant, flashing pageant, a struggle of beasts in robes of
gold and velvet--assassins dancing in jewelled garters. Every scene,
every motion was worn with use on the stage, and yet her own romance,
her happiness, seemed to depend upon her capitulation as well as his.
"If they accept _Alessandra_ he will come back to me proudly--at least
with a sense of victory over his ignoble enemies. If I return it he will
know I am right, but will still be left so deeply in my debt that he
will never come to see me again." And with this thought she determined
upon a course of action which led at least to a meeting and to a
reconciliation between the author and the manager, and with the thought
of seeing him again her heart grew light.
When she came to the theatre at night Westervelt was waiting at the
door.
"Well?" he asked, anxiously. "What do you think of it?"
"I have sent for the author," she answered, coldly. "He will meet me
to-morrow at eleven. Come to the hotel and I will introduce him to you."
"Splendid! splendid!" exclaimed the manager. "You found it suited to
you! A great part, eh?"
"I like it better than _The Baroness_," she replied, and left him
broad-faced with joy.
"She is coming sensible again," he chuckled. "Now that that crank is out
of the way we shall see her as she was--triumphant."
Again the audience responded to every line she spoke, and as she played
something reassuring came up to her from the faces below. The house was
perceptibly less empty, but the comfort arose from something more
intangible than an increase of filled chairs. "I believe the tide has
turned," she thought, exultantly, but dared not say so to Hugh.
That night she sent a note to Douglass, and the words of her message
filled him with mingled feelings of exultation and bitterness:
"You have won! Westervelt and Hugh are crazy to meet the author of
_Alessandra_. They see a great success for you, for me, for all of us.
Westervelt is ready to pour out his money to stage the thing gorgeously.
Come to-morrow to meet them. Come proudly. You will find them both ready
to take your hand--eager to acknowledge that they have misjudged you. We
have both made a fight for good work and failed. No one can blame us if
we yield to necessity."
The thought of once more meeting her, of facing her managers with
confident gaze on equal terms, made Douglass tremble with excitement. He
dressed with care, attempting as best he could to put away all the dust
and odors of his miserable tenement, and went forth looking much like
the old-time, self-confident youth who faced down the clerk. His mind
ran over every word in Helen's note a dozen times, extracting each time
new and hidden meanings.
"If it is the great success they think it, my fortune is made." His
spirits began to overleap all bounds. "It will enable me to meet her as
an equal--not in worth," he acknowledged--"she is so much finer and
nobler than any man that ever lived--but I will at least be something
more than a tramp kennelled in a musty hole." His mind took another
flight. "I can go home with pride also. Oh, success is a sovereign
thing. Think of Hugh and Westervelt waiting to welcome me--and Helen!"
When he thought of her his confident air failed him, his face flushed,
his hands felt numb. She shone now like a far-off violet star. She had
recovered her aloofness, her allurement in his mind, and it was
difficult for him to realize that he had once known her intimately and
that he had treated her inconsiderately. "I must have been mad," he
exclaimed. It seemed months since he had looked into her face.
The clerk he dreaded to meet was off duty, and as the elevator boy knew
him he did not approach the desk, but went at once to Helen's
apartments.
She did not meet him at the door as he had foolishly expected. Delia,
the maid, greeted him with a smile, and led him back to the
reception-room and left him alone.
He heard Helen's voice, the rustle of her dress, and then she stood
before him. As he looked into her face and read love and pity in her
eyes he lost all fear, all doubt, and caught her hand in both of his,
unable to speak a word in his defence--unable even to tell her of his
gratitude and love.
She recovered herself first, and, drawing back, looked at him
searchingly. "You poor fellow, you've been working like mad. You are
ill!"
"No, I am not ill--only tired. I have had only one thought, one aim
since I saw you last, that was to write something to restore you to your
old place----"
"I do not want to be restored. Now listen, Lord Douglass. If I do
_Alessandra_, it is because we both need the money and the prestige; but
I do not despair, and you must not. Please let me manage this whole
affair; will you?"
"I am your slave."
"Don't say such things. I don't want you to be humble. I want you to be
as brave, as proud as before."
She said this in such a tone that he rose to it. His face reset in lines
of resolution. "I will not be humble with any other human being but you.
I worship you."
She stood for a moment looking at him fixedly, a smile of pride and
tender dream on her lips, then said, "You must not say such things to
me--not now." The bell rang. "Here comes your new-found admirers," she
exclaimed, gleefully. "Now, you sit here, a little in the shadow, and I
will bring them in."