XIX

Helen insisted that her playwright should go back to the West for a

month's rest.

"I do not need rest, I need you," he answered, recklessly. "It fills me

with content merely to see you."

"Nevertheless, you must go. We don't need you here. And, besides, you

interfere with my plans."

"Is that true?" His eyes searched deep as he questioned.

"I am speaking as the actress to the playwright." She pointed tragically

to the door. "Go! Your poor old, lonely mother awaits you."

"There are six in the family; she's my stepmother, and we don't get on

smoothly."

"Your father is waiting to congratulate you."

"On the contrary. He thinks actresses and playwrights akin to 'popery.'"

She laughed. "Well, then, go on my account--on your account. You are

tired, and so am I--"

"That is why I should remain, to relieve you, to help you. Or, do you

mean you're tired of me?"

"I won't say that; but I must not see you. I must not see any one. If I

do this big part right, I must rest. I intend to sleep a good part of

the time. I have sent for Henry Olquest, and I intend to put the whole

of the stage end of this play in his hands. Our ideals are not concerned

in this _Alessandra_, you remember."

His face clouded. "That is true. I wish it were otherwise. But can you

get Olquest?"

"Yes; his new play has failed. 'Too good,' Westervelt said."

"Oh, what blasphemy! To think Harry Olquest's plays are rejected, and on

such grounds! You are right--as always. I will go."

"Thank you!"

"I am a little frazled, I admit, and a breath of mountain-air will do me

good. I will visit my brother Walt in Darien. It's hard to go. My heart

begins to ache already with prospective hunger. You have been my world,

my one ambition for three months--my incessant care and thought."

"All the more reason why you should forget me and things dramatic for a

while. There is nothing so destructive to peace and tranquillity as the

stage."

"Don't I know that? When I was a youth in a Western village I became in

some way the possessor of two small photographs of Elsie Melville. She

was my ideal till I saw her, fifteen years later."

Helen laughed. "Poor Elsie, she took on flesh dreadfully in her later

years."

"Nevertheless, those photographs started me on the road to the stage. I

used to fancy myself as Macbeth, but I soon got switched into the belief

that I could write plays. Now that I have demonstrated that"--his tone

was a little bitter again--"I think I would better return to

architecture."

She silenced him. "All that we will discuss when you come back

reinvigorated from the mountains." She turned to her desk. "I have

something here for you. Here is a small check from Westervelt on

account. Don't hesitate to take it. He was glad to give it."

"It is the price of my intellectual honesty."

"By no means!" She laughed, but her heart sickened with a sense of the

truth of his phrase. "It's only a very small part payment. You can at

least know that the bribe they offer is large."

"Yes"--he looked at her meaningly--"the prize was too great for my poor

resolution. All they can give will remain _part_ payment. I wonder if

you will be compassionate enough to complete the purchase--"

"_That_, too, is in the future," she answered, still struggling to be

gayly reassuring, though she knew, perfectly well, that she was face to

face with a most momentous decision and that an insistent, determined

lover was about to be restored to confidence and pride. "And now,

good-bye." And she gave him her hand in positive dismissal.

He took the hand and pressed it hard, then turned and went away without

speaking.

* * * * *

There was a hint of spring in the air the afternoon of his leaving. The

wind came from the southwest, brisk and powerful. In the pale, misty

blue of the sky a fleet of small, white clouds swam, like ships with

wide and bellying sails, low down in the eastern horizon, and the sight

of them somehow made it harder for Douglass to leave the city of his

adoption. He was powerfully minded to turn back, to remain on the

ferry-boat and land again on the towering island so heavily freighted

with human sorrows, so brilliant with human joys, and only a realization

that his presence might trouble and distract Helen kept him to his

journey's westward course.

As he looked back at the monstrous hive of men the wonder of Helen's

personality came to him. That she alone, and unaided (save by her own

inborn genius and her beauty), should have succeeded in becoming

distinguished, even regnant, among so many eager and striving souls,

overwhelmed him with love and admiration.

He wondered how he could have assumed even for an instant the tone of a

lover, the gesture of a master. "I, a poor, restless, penniless vagabond

on the face of the earth--I presumed to complain of her!" he exclaimed,

and shuddered with guilty disgust at thought of that night behind the

scenes.

In this mood he rode out into the West, which was bleak with winter

winds and piled high with snow. He paused but a day with his father,

whom he found busy prolonging the lives of the old people with whom the

town was filled. It was always a shock to the son, this contrast between

the outward peace and well-seeming of his native town and the inner

mortality and swift decay. Even in a day's visit he felt the grim

destroyer's presence, palpable as the shadow of a cloud.

He hastened on to Darien, that curious mixture of Spanish-Mexican

indolence and bustling American enterprise, a town wherein his brother

Walt had established himself some years before.

Walter Douglass was shocked by the change in his brother. "I can't

understand how fourteen months in New York can reduce a lusty youth to

the color of a cabbage and the consistency of a gelatine pudding. I

reckon you'd better key yourself down to my pace for a while. Look at

me!"

The playwright smiled. "I haven't indulged myself too much. You can't

hit a very high pace on twelve dollars a week."

"Oh, I don't know. There are cheap brands of whiskey; and you can

breathe the bad air of a theatre every night if you climb high enough. I

know you've been too strenuous at some point. Now, what's the meaning of

it all?"

"I've been working very hard."

"Shouldn't do it. Look at me. I never work and never worry. I play. I

weigh two hundred pounds, eat well, sleep like a doorknob, make about

three thousand dollars a year, and educate my children. I don't want to

seem conceited, but my way of life appeals to me as philosophic; yours

is too wasteful. Come, now, you're keeping back something. You might as

well 'fess up. What _were_ you doing?"

The playwright remained on his guard. "Well, as I wrote you, I had a

couple of plays accepted and helped to produce them. There's nothing

more wearing than producing a play. The anxiety is killing."

"I believe you. I think the writing of one act would finish me. Yes, I

can see that would be exciting business; but what's all this about your

engagement to some big actress?"

This brought the blood to the younger man's cheek, but he was studiedly

careless in reply. "All newspaper talk. Of course, in rehearsing the

play, I saw a great deal of Miss Merival, but--that's all. She is one of

the most successful and brilliant women on the stage, while I--well, I

am only a 'writing architect,' earning my board by doing a little

dramatic criticism now and then. You need not put any other two things

together to know how foolish such reports are."

Walt seemed satisfied. "Well, my advice is: slow down to Darien time.

Eat and sleep, and ride a bronco to make you eat more and sleep harder,

and in two weeks you'll be like your old-time self."

This advice, so obviously sound, was hard to follow, for each day

brought a letter from Helen, studiously brief and very sparing of any

terms of affection--frank, good letters, kindly but no more--and young

Douglass was dissatisfied, and said so. He spent a large part of each

morning pouring out upon paper the thoughts and feelings surging within

him. He told her of the town, of the delicious, crisp climate--like

October in the East--of the great snow-peaks to the West, of his rides

far out on the plain, of his plans for the coming year.

"I dug an old play out of my trunk to-day" (he wrote, towards the end of

the first week). "It's the first one I ever attempted. It is very

boyish. I had no problems in my mind then, but it is worth while. I am

going to rewrite it and send it on to you, for I can't be idle. I

believe you'll like it. It is a love drama pure and simple."

To this she replied: "I am interested in what you say of your first

play, but don't work--rest and enjoy your vacation."

A few days later he wrote, in exultation: "I got a grip on the play

yesterday and re-wrote two whole acts. I think I've put some of the

glory of this land and sky into it--I mean the exultation of health and

youth. I am putting you into it, too--I mean the adoration I feel for

you, my queen!

"Do you know, all the old wonder of you is coming back to me. When I

think of you as the great actress my nerves are shaken. Is it possible

that the mysterious Helen Merival is my Helen? I am mad to rush back to

you to prove it. Isn't it presumptuous of me to say, 'My Helen'? But at

this distance you cannot reprove me. I came across some pictures of you

in a magazine to-day, and was thrilled and awed by them. I have not said

anything of Helen MacDavitt to my people, but of the good and great

actress Helen Merival I speak copiously. They all feel very grateful to

you for helping me. Father thinks you at least forty. He could not

understand how a woman under thirty could rise to such eminence as you

have attained. Walt also takes it for granted you are middle-aged. He

knows how long the various 'Maggies' and 'Ethels' and 'Annies' have been

in public life. He saw something in a paper about us the other day, but

took it as a joke. If this fourth play of mine comes off, and you find

it worth producing, I shall be happy. It might counteract the baleful

influence of _Alessandra_. I began to wonder how I ever did such a

melodrama. Is it as bad as it seems to me now?...

"I daren't ask how _Enid_ is doing. It makes me turn cold to think of

the money you are losing. Wouldn't it pay to let the theatre go 'dark'

till the new thing is ready?...

"I am amazed at my temerity with you, serene lady. If I had not been

filled with the colossal conceit of the young author, I never would have

dared to approach--What I did during those mad weeks (you know the ones

I mean) gives me such shame and suffering as I have never known, and my

whole life is now ordered to make you forget that side of my character.

I ask myself now, 'What would Helen have me do?' I don't say this humble

mood will last. If _Alessandra_ should make a 'barrel of money,' I am

capable of soaring to such heights of audacity that you will be

startled."

To this she replied: "I am not working at rehearsal more than is

necessary. Mr. Olquest is a jewel. He has taken the whole burden of the

stage direction off my hands. I lie in bed till noon each morning and go

for a drive each pleasant afternoon. Our spring weather is gone. Winter

has returned upon us again.... I miss you very much. For all the worry

you gave us, we found entertainment in you. Don't trouble about the

money we are losing. Westervelt is putting up all the cash for the new

production and is angelic of manner--or means to be. I prefer him when

in the dumps. He attends every rehearsal and is greatly excited over my

part. He now thinks you great, and calls you 'the American Sardou.' ...

I have put all our dismal hours behind me. 'All this, too, shall pass

away.' ... I care not to what audacity you wing your way, if only you

come back to us your good, sane, undaunted self once more."

In this letter, as in all her intercourse with him, there was restraint,

as though love were being counselled by prudence. And this was, indeed,

the case. A foreboding of all that an acknowledgment of a man's

domination might mean to her troubled Helen. The question, "How would

marriage affect my plans," beset her, though she tried to thrust it

away, to retire it to the indefinite future.

Her love grew steadily, feeding upon his letters, which became each day

more buoyant and manly, bringing to her again the sense of unbounded

ambition and sane power with which his presence had filled her at their

first meeting.

"You are not of the city," she wrote. "You belong to the country. Think

how near New York came to destroying you. You ought not to come back.

Why don't you settle out there and take up public life?"

His answer was definite: "You need not fear. The city will never again

dominate me. I have found myself--through you. With you to inspire me I

cannot fail. Public life! Do you mean politics? I am now fit for only

one thing--to write. I have found my work. And do you think I could live

anywhere without hope of seeing you? My whole life is directed towards

you--to be worthy of you, to be justified in asking you to join your

life to mine. These are my ambitions, my audacious desires. I love you,

and you must know that I cannot be content with your friendship--your

affection--which I know I have. I want your love in return. Not now--not

while I am a man of words merely. As I now feel _Alessandra_ is a little

thing compared with the sacrifice you have made for me. I have stripped

away all my foolish egotism, and when I return to see you on the opening

night I shall rejoice in your success without a tinge of bitterness. It

isn't as if the melodrama were degrading in its appeal. It does not

represent my literary ideals, of course, but it is not contemptible, it

is merely conventional. My mind _has_ cleared since I came here. I see

myself in proper relation to you and to the public. I see now that with

the large theatre, with the long 'run' ideals, a play _must_ be very

general in its appeal, and with such conditions it is folly for us to

quarrel. We must have our own little theatre wherein we can play the

subtler phases of American life--the phases we both rejoice in. If

_Alessandra_ should pay my debt to you--- you see how my mind comes back

to that thought--we will use it to build our own temple of art. As I

think of you there, toiling without me, I am wild with desire to return

to be doing something. I am ready now to turn my hand to any humble

thing--to direct rehearsals, to design costumes, anything, only to be

near you. One word from you and I will come."

To this she replied: "No; on the contrary, you must stay a week longer.

We have postponed the production on account of some extra scenic effect

which Hugh wishes to perfect. They profess wonder now at your knowledge

of scenic effect as well as your eye for costume and stage-setting. Your

last letter disturbed me greatly, while it pleased me. I liked its tone

of boyish enthusiasm, but your directness of speech scared me. I'm

almost afraid to meet you. You men are so literal, so insistent in your

demands. A woman doesn't know what she wants--sometimes; she doesn't

like to be brought to bay so roundly. You have put so much at stake on

_Alessandra_ that I am a-tremble with fear of consequences. If it

succeeds you will be insufferably conceited and assured; if it fails we

will never see you again. Truly the life of a star is not all glitter."

This letter threw him into a panic. He hastened to disclaim any wish to

disturb her. "If you will forgive me this time I will not offend again.

I did not mean to press for an answer. I distinctly said that at

present I have no right to do so. I daren't do so, in fact. I send you,

under another cover, the youthful play which I call _The Morning_. Isn't

that fanciful enough? It means, of course, that I am now just reaching

the point in my life where the man of thirty-odd looks back upon the boy

of eighteen with a wistful tenderness, feeling that the mystery of the

world has in some sense departed with the morning. Of a certainty this

idea is not new, but I took a joy in writing this little idyl, and I

would like to see you do 'the wonderful lady I see in my dreams.' Can

you find an actor who can do my lad of 'the poetic fancy'?"

She replied to this: "Your play made me cry, for I, too, am leaving the

dewy morning behind. I like this play; it is very tender and beautiful,

and do you know I believe it would touch more hearts than your gorgeous

melodrama. Mr. Howells somewhere beautifully says that when he is most

intimate in the disclosures of his own feelings he finds himself most

widely responded to--or something like that. I really am eager to do

this play. It has increased my wonder of your powers. I really begin to

feel that I know only part of you. First _Lillian's Duty_ taught me some

of your stern Scotch morality. Then _Enid's Choice_ revealed to me your

conception of the integrity of a good woman's soul--that nothing can

debase it. _Alessandra_ disclosed your learning and your imaginative

power. Now here I feel the poet, the imaginative boy. I will not say

this has increased my faith in you--it has added to my knowledge of you.

But I must confess to you it has made it very difficult for me to go on

with _Alessandra_. All the other plays are in line of a national drama.

_Alessandra_ is a bitter and ironical concession. _The Morning_ makes

its splendor almost tawdry. It hurt me to go to rehearsal to-day.

Westervelt's presence was a gloating presence, and I hated him. Hugh's

report of the exultant 'I told you so's' of the dramatic critics

sickened me--" Her letter ended abruptly, almost at this point.

His reply contained these words: "It is not singular that you feel

irritated by _Alessandra_ while I am growing resigned, for you are in

daily contact with the sordid business. Tell me I may come back. I want

to be at the opening. I know you will secure a great personal triumph. I

want to see you shining again amid a shower of roses. I want to help

take your horses from your carriage, and wheel you in glory through the

streets as they used to do in olden times as tribute to their great

favorites. I haven't seen a New York paper since I came West. I hope you

have put _Enid_ away. What is the use wearing yourself out playing a

disastrous rôle while forced to rehearse a new one? My longing to see

you is so great that the sight of your picture on my desk is a sweet

torture. Write me that you want me, dearest."

She replied, very simply: "You may come. Our opening night is now fixed

for Monday next. You will have just time to get here. All is well."

To this he wired reply: "I start to-night. Arrive on Monday at Grand

Central. Eleven-thirty."

* * * * *

Helen was waiting for him at the gate of the station in a beautiful

spring hat, her face abloom, her eyes dancing, and the sight of her

robbed him of all caution. Dropping his valise, he rushed towards her,

intent to take her in his arms.

She stopped him with one outstretched hand. "How well you look!" Her

voice, so rich, so vibrant, moved him like song.

"And you--you are the embodiment of spring." Then, in a low voice, close

to her ear, he added: "I love you! I love you! How beautiful you are!"

"Hush!" She lifted a finger in a gesture of warning. "You must not say

such things to me--here." With the addition of that final word her face

grew arch. Then in a louder tone: "I was right, was I not, to send you

away?"

"I am a new being," he answered, "morally and physically. But tell me,

what is the meaning of these notices? Have you put _The Morning_ on in

place of _Alessandra_?"

Hugh interposed. "That's what she's done," and offered his hand with

unexpected cordiality.

"You take my breath away," said Douglass. "I can't follow your reckless

campaigns."

"We'll explain. We're not as reckless as we seem."

They began to move towards the street, Hugh leading the way with the

playwright's bag.

Helen laughed at her lover's perplexity and dismay. "You look

befoozled."

"I am. I can't understand. After all that work and expense--after all my

toilsome grind--my sacrifice of principles."

She was close to his shoulder as she said, looking up at him with

beaming, tender eyes:

"That's just it. I couldn't accept your offering. After _The Morning_

came in, my soul revolted. I ordered the _Alessandra_ manuscript brought

in. Do you know what I did with it?"

"Rewrote it, I hope."

Her face expressed daring, humor, triumph, but the hand lifted to the

chin expressed a little apprehension as she replied: "Rewrote it? No, I

didn't think of that. _I burned it._"

He stopped, unconscious of the streaming crowds. "Burned it! I can't

believe you. My greatest work--"

"It is gone." The smile died out of her eyes, her face became very grave

and very sweet. "I couldn't bear to have you bow your head to please a

public not worthy of you. The play was un-American, and should not have

been written by you."

He was dazed by the enormous consequences of this action, and his mind

flashed from point to point before he answered, in a single word:

"Westervelt."

Thereat they both laughed, and she explained. "It was dreadful. He

raged, he shook the whole block as he trotted to and fro tearing his

hair. I think he wished to tear my hair. He really resembled the elder

Salvini as Othello--you know the scene I mean. I gave him a check to

compensate him. He tore it up and blew it into the air with a curse. Oh,

it was beautiful comedy. I told him our interview would make a hit as a

'turn' on the vaudeville stage. Nothing could calm him. I was firm, and

_Alessandra_ was in ashes."

They moved on out upon the walk and into the hideous clamor of

Forty-second Street, his mind still busy with the significance of her

news. Henry Olquest in an auto sat waiting for them. After a quick

hand-shake Douglass lifted Helen to her place, followed her with a leap,

and they were off on a ride which represented to him more than an

association with success--it seemed a triumphal progress. Something in

Helen's eyes exalted him, filled his throat with an emotion nigh to

tears. His eyes were indeed smarting as she turned to say: "You are just

in time for dress rehearsal. Do you want to see it?"

"No, I leave it all to you. I want to be the author if I can. I want to

get the thrill."

"I think you will like our production. Mr. Olquest has done marvels with

it. You'll enjoy it; I know you will. It will restore your lost youth to

you."

"I hope it will restore some of your lost dollars. I saw by the papers

that you were still struggling with _Enid_. I shudder to think what that

means. The other poor little play will never be able to lift that huge

debt."

"I'm not so sure about that," she gayly answered. "The rehearsals have

almost resigned"--she pointed at Hugh's back--"him to the change."

"I confess I was surprised by his cordial greeting."

"Oh, he's quite shifted his point of view. He thinks _The Morning_ may

'catch 'em' on other grounds."

"And you--you are radiant. I expected to find you worn out. You dazzle

me."

"You mustn't look at me then. Look at the avenue. Isn't it fine this

morning?"

He took her hint. "It is glorious. I feel that I am again at the centre

of things. After all, this is our one great city, the only place where

life is diverse enough to give the dramatist his material. I begin to

understand the attitude of actors when they land from the ferry-boat,

draw a long breath, and say, 'Thank God, I'm in New York again.'"

"It's the only city in America where an artist can be judged by his

peers. I suppose that is one reason why we love it."

"Yes, it's worth conquering, and I'll make my mark upon it yet," and his

tone was a note of self-mastery as well as of resolution. "It is a city

set on a hill. To take it brings great glory and lasting honor."

She smiled up at him again, a proud light in her eyes. "Now you are

your good, rugged self, the man who 'hypnotized' me into taking

_Lillian's Duty_. You'll need all your courage; the critics are to be

out in force."

"I do not fear them," he answered, as they whirled into the plaza and up

to the side entrance of the hotel.

"I've engaged a room for you here, Douglass," said Hugh, and the new

note of almost comradeship struck the playwright with wonder. He was a

little sceptical of it.

"Very well," he answered. "I am reckless. I will stay one day."

"Mother will be waiting to see you," said Helen, as they entered the

hall. "She is your stanch supporter."

"She is a dear mother. I wish she were my own."

Each word he uttered now carried a hidden meaning, and some inner

relenting, some sweet, secret concession which he dimly felt but dared

not presume upon, gave her a girlish charm which she had never before

worn in his eyes.

They took lunch together, seated at the same table in the same way, and

yet not in the same spirit. He was less self-centred, less insistent.

His winter of proved inefficiency, his sense of indebtedness to her, his

all-controlling love for her gave him a new appeal. He was at once

tender and humorous as he referred again to _Alessandra_.

"Well, now that my chief work of art is destroyed, I must begin again at

the bottom. I have definitely given up all idea of following my

profession. I am going to do specials for one of the weeklies. Anderson

has interceded for me. I am to enter the ranks of the enemy. I am not

sure but I ought to do a criticism of my own play to-morrow night."

She was thinking of other things. "Tell me of your people. Did you talk

of me to them? What did they say of me?"

"They all think of you as a kind, middle-aged lady, who has been very

good to a poor country boy."