If the young dramatist had been disappointed by Miss Delacourt’s apparent
lack of interest in his play and in the part of Gertrude on the occasion
of that first luncheon, he was quickly reassured by the energetic way in
which, beginning with the next day, she threw herself into her work. As
soon as she had time “to roll up her sleeves,” as she expressed it, she
plunged into the rehearsals, an incarnation of work and enthusiasm.
To be sure, she put the author through some uncomfortable hours while she
criticized his piece and suggested many important changes with her usual
frankness and point. She “combed it out,” as she said, line by line, and
convinced him, against his will, that he should cut freely and sharpen
his dialogue all through. Moreover, she set him right on several subtle
points in the heroine’s psychology.
“She knows what she’s about, too,” Farson reported to Brainard. “I don’t
see how she’s done it, but in her flip way she’s absorbed a lot in
Europe. She knows what all of them are doing. She was quoting Brieux,
Barrie, and Shaw at me last night all in one gulp. I must rewrite that
third curtain to suit her ladyship.”
“You must remember that you are dealing with a star,” Brainard observed
dryly. “Louisiana may be new to the firmament, but she knows
instinctively what belongs to her starship.”
In much the same manner the new leading lady took hold of the other
players, and “shook ’em all by the neck and woke ’em up.” There were but
three weeks left, and she wore the company almost to the point of revolt
by the long rehearsals she demanded. When they grumbled, she read them a
characteristic lecture.
“It’s your last stunt for the old People’s. You know you have all got a
lot out of the concern—for one thing, better pay than some of you will
ever see again; and much more besides. So show that you’ve got something
warm inside your anatomy where your hearts ought to be—at least a dog’s
gratitude for the hand that’s fed you. The piece is all right, too; it
will make the jaded pulse of Broadway flutter like an _ingénue_. Just
you give the public a chance to discover that here is a play as _is_ a
play!”
During these strenuous weeks of rehearsal Brainard was absent most of the
time in Arizona and Washington, where the already celebrated case of the
Krutzmacht widow was now imminent. He had come to believe that Farson
had more than a professional interest in his Gertrude, and he preferred
to be absent from the scene of the wooing; but on the day of the dress
rehearsal of _Her Great Adventure_ he returned to New York and dropped in
at the theater on his way home, slipping into a seat in the rear of the
dim house.
The piece went with amazing swiftness and smoothness, thanks to the hard
work Miss Delacourt had got out of the company. Absorbed by the play,
Brainard was completely taken out of the wearying round of his daily
perplexities.
“It _is_ a play,” he muttered excitedly to himself, “and they do it
wonderfully well. That girl is almost great. If the public will only
come to see her, and not believe what the newspapers say, they’ll
understand. She’s an actress!”
He repeated these warm words of praise a little later in Miss Delacourt’s
dressing room, where he went to congratulate the actress. Louisiana was
in street costume, buttoning up her gloves, when he arrived.
“I saw you in the back row,” she said in reply. “Any better news?”
“I am afraid not. The first court reserved its decision. They put up an
amazing case, the impudent rascals! They almost made me believe them in
spite of myself. I must tell you all about it sometime. I think we
shall be able to pull off _Her Great Adventure_ just in time before the
sheriff closes the doors.”
He laughed good-humoredly at the situation, and handed her his cigarette
case. Louisiana lighted a cigarette, then said abruptly:
“I hope you won’t be angry with me. I’ve borrowed something of yours
while you were away. Couldn’t wait to get permission.”
“Honored that you found anything worth taking! What is it?”
“I borrowed a new name for myself!”
“I remember you said that we had ruined the old one for you!” he laughed.
“You were sitting over there in the corner, too mad to cry, when you said
it.”
“After making such a guy of myself as Cordelia I couldn’t bear to see the
old name on the billboards. Besides, I think I like this one better,
anyway.”
“What is it?”
“I’m calling myself Melody—”
Brainard’s expression changed suddenly; and he turned away.
“You don’t like it,” she said coaxingly. “But it’s a pretty name!”
“Melody what?” he asked with a touch of sternness.
“Oh, just Melody White—that’s all.”
“But Melody was _her_ name,” he protested.
“I know! You told me so. But that Melody doesn’t exist really; she’s
just a name—an idea you have. I took a fancy to it—my dotty point, see?
I’m superstitious about it. I want to make this play a great big
success, as you made the mine,” she said swiftly. “So don’t be cross
with me for making free with your unknown lady love’s first name!”
Brainard smiled in spite of himself at the girl’s insistence on a trivial
thing.
“I don’t know why I should object,” he said slowly.
But he realized that even in speaking he did object. It was one thing to
ask him for Melody’s sketch, the only memento he had of his mistress, but
another to take this liberty with the mythical Melody’s name, and to post
it up for the whole world to see on a theatrical billboard. In a moment,
however, Brainard’s common sense came back to him.
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t take that name as well as any other,
if you can make it right with Farson and the manager. I should think
they might object, after all the press work they have done for Louisiana
Delacourt.”
“I can manage _them_ all right!”
The new Melody puffed these gentlemen aside in a cloud of smoke.
They drove uptown together in Brainard’s car, but neither spoke. The
girl, Brainard observed, was unwontedly excited, her little hands gnawing
at the muff in her lap, her keen eyes devouring the passing crowd on the
streets. Brainard, who was tired in mind and body, was content merely to
watch his companion from his corner through half-closed eyes.
After all the hard work of the past weeks, Louisiana—or, as she now
preferred to call herself, Melody—was marvelously fresh and pretty. She
had the lithe body, the deep-set eyes, the sensitive, mobile features of
a real temperament. He wondered whether she cared deeply for Farson.
The young secretary was undoubtedly attractive, and should this play
bring him the attention it ought, he might become a good dramatist; but
if the girl had an ambition to be a great actress, she had better not tie
herself yet to any man. And it comforted Brainard curiously to remember
how unmercifully she had handled the young man’s play.
“_The Star of the Seven Seas_ is to be withdrawn,” she said at last,
breaking in on his meditation. “Only two weeks’ run—dead failure!
Cissie thinks New York audiences are exceedingly provincial. She is
going back to dear old Lunnon as soon as she can get there. Maybe I
shall be able to help her later.”
As the car stopped before a third-rate hotel in the Forties, Brainard
inquired:
“So Cissie has moved from the Astor?”
“Yes, Cissie is visiting me now,” the actress replied.
“Times change—for us all!”
“They do that—sure—and for the better sometimes!” the young actress
averred with a contented smile.