If actors and actresses are like children in that they are readily
depressed by disaster, they have the child's compensating gift of being
easily uplifted by good fortune. It amazed Sally that any one mortal
should have been able to spread such universal happiness as she had
done by the simple act of lending her brother Fillmore twenty thousand
dollars. If the Millennium had arrived, the members of the Primrose
Way Company could not have been on better terms with themselves. The
lethargy and dispiritedness, caused by their week of inaction, fell from
them like a cloak. The sudden elevation of that creature of the abyss,
the assistant stage manager, to the dizzy height of proprietor of the
show appealed to their sense of drama. Most of them had played in pieces
where much the same thing had happened to the persecuted heroine round
about eleven o'clock, and the situation struck them as theatrically
sound. Also, now that she had gone, the extent to which Miss Hobson had
acted as a blight was universally recognized.
A spirit of optimism reigned, and cheerful rumours became current. The
bowler-hatted Teddy had it straight from the lift-boy at his hotel that
the ban on the theatres was to be lifted on Tuesday at the latest; while
no less an authority than the cigar-stand girl at the Pontchatrain had
informed the man who played the butler that Toledo and Cleveland were
opening to-morrow. It was generally felt that the sun was bursting
through the clouds and that Fate would soon despair of the hopeless task
of trying to keep good men down.
Fillmore was himself again. We all have our particular mode of
self-expression in moments of elation. Fillmore's took the shape of
buying a new waistcoat and a hundred half-dollar cigars and being very
fussy about what he had for lunch. It may have been an optical illusion,
but he appeared to Sally to put on at least six pounds in weight on the
first day of the new regime. As a serf looking after paper-knives and
other properties, he had been--for him--almost slim. As a manager
he blossomed out into soft billowy curves, and when he stood on the
sidewalk in front of the theatre, gloating over the new posters which
bore the legend,
FILLMORE NICHOLAS
PRESENTS
the populace had to make a detour to get round him.
In this era of bubbling joy, it was hard that Sally, the fairy godmother
responsible for it all, should not have been completely happy too; and
it puzzled her why she was not. But whatever it was that cast the faint
shadow refused obstinately to come out from the back of her mind and
show itself and be challenged. It was not till she was out driving in
a hired car with Gerald one afternoon on Belle Isle that enlightenment
came.
Gerald, since the departure of Miss Hobson, had been at his best. Like
Fillmore, he was a man who responded to the sunshine of prosperity. His
moodiness had vanished, and all his old charm had returned. And yet...
it seemed to Sally, as the car slid smoothly through the pleasant woods
and fields by the river, that there was something that jarred.
Gerald was cheerful and talkative. He, at any rate, found nothing wrong
with life. He held forth spaciously on the big things he intended to do.
“If this play get over--and it's going to--I'll show 'em!” His jaw was
squared, and his eyes glowed as they stared into the inviting future.
“One success--that's all I need--then watch me! I haven't had a chance
yet, but...”
His voice rolled on, but Sally had ceased to listen. It was the time of
year when the chill of evening follows swiftly on the mellow warmth
of afternoon. The sun had gone behind the trees, and a cold wind was
blowing up from the river. And quite suddenly, as though it was the
wind that had cleared her mind, she understood what it was that had been
lurking at the back of her thoughts. For an instant it stood out nakedly
without concealment, and the world became a forlorn place. She had
realized the fundamental difference between man's outlook on life and
woman's.
Success! How men worshipped it, and how little of themselves they had to
spare for anything else. Ironically, it was the theme of this very play
of Gerald's which she had saved from destruction. Of all the men she
knew, how many had any view of life except as a race which they must
strain every nerve to win, regardless of what they missed by the wayside
in their haste? Fillmore--Gerald--all of them. There might be a woman in
each of their lives, but she came second--an afterthought--a thing for
their spare time. Gerald was everything to her. His success would never
be more than a side-issue as far as she was concerned. He himself,
without any of the trappings of success, was enough for her. But she was
not enough for him. A spasm of futile jealousy shook her. She shivered.
“Cold?” said Gerald. “I'll tell the man to drive back... I don't see any
reason why this play shouldn't run a year in New York. Everybody says
it's good... if it does get over, they'll all be after me. I...”
Sally stared out into a bleak world. The sky was a leaden grey, and the
wind from the river blew with a dismal chill.