THE DISCOVERY
THREE months of joyous work on the play followed swiftly, with the
little spirit of joyous service fluttering from one desk to the other
and back to her typewriter.
The days had not been without their hours of silent misery for Ellen.
She had lost the lover in the comrade and worker. Rose’s presence had,
of course, made their love-life more difficult, but she couldn’t get
out of her head the impression that somehow Manning had taken undue
advantage of it.
To reproach him was impossible. She would die sooner than humiliate
herself in this abject way. A wife might nag her husband for
neglect--they were bound by legal chains. She had the legal right to
nag and he must submit. She was free. Manning was free. He was not
expected to guarantee the beat of his heart. She had not demanded it.
She could not expect it.
She had sought in vain for a trace of undue interest in Rose. His
attitude toward the girl was scrupulously correct. When she thought of
it carefully, it was painfully correct. He seemed to be on his guard.
That she decidedly did not like. It was the only ominous sign on which
her morbid fancy could settle.
The more she watched, the less she found for suspicion. Her fears were
gradually stilled.
The play was accepted, and the whirlwind of excitement on its
production had reached the climax of the final dress rehearsal.
The night had been a storm of emotion such as Ellen had never dreamed
possible on earth. She had supposed a dress rehearsal to be something
of a formal orderly production of the finished play. She had found it
the culmination of all the troubles of director, stage hands, managers,
property man, electricians, press agents, and authors.
Manning had generously disclaimed any knowledge of the technique of the
drama and insisted that Ellen should have full charge of the production.
The entire burden of the rehearsals, so far as changes demanded, fell
on her. She had fought fiercely with the director over an important
change which he had asked in the first act and had refused to budge an
inch.
The managers were on hand to-night to sit in final judgment. When the
curtain came down on the first act, they pounced on the author with
the emphatic demand that the change be made in accordance with the
director’s views.
As a matter of fact they were right, but with her lack of practical
experience she refused to see it.
The managers didn’t argue. They merely issued an order to the director.
“Cut that scene out. It’s no good. It stops the whole action of the
play.”
“You’ll never put on another play of mine!” Ellen snapped.
The senior manager smiled.
“This is the play we’ve got our money in now, Miss West; we must get it
right for the benefit of everybody concerned.”
Ellen was so enraged she sat in sullen silence for the next two acts
and let them do exactly as they pleased. She had consigned the whole
thing to the bottomless pit. And yet she sat fascinated as she watched
for the first time the puppets of her imagination live and move and
breathe before her eyes.
It was twelve o’clock before the fourth act was called. A break in the
scene set caused a long delay, and while the noise of saw and hammer
rang behind the curtain Ellen rose and wandered down the dimly lighted
side-aisle to the rear of the orchestra.
Behind the heavy curtains above the rear orchestra rail she heard the
low hum of conversation, and the unmistakable voice of Manning. She
stopped and listened to be sure. There could be no mistake about it.
The other voice was a woman’s. She listened intently. It was soft and
low, but she couldn’t be mistaken. Rose was his companion.
Her heart stood still in sudden anguish. How long had they been there?
Perhaps two hours. She had been so infuriated over the demand of the
managers and so overwhelmed with the sense of confusion, turmoil and
excitement she had lost the track of time.
She moved instinctively toward the curtain, unable to resist the desire
to hear what they were saying. She reproached herself bitterly for the
disgraceful act, but her muscles refused to retreat.
Manning’s voice was tenderly modulated with unconscious effort.
The girl’s voice quivered with emotion.
“But Aunt Ellen will be furious when she knows you struck your name off
the program,” she said.
“And what of it, Miss Rose. It’s done, and she can’t undo it.”
At least he had said “Miss Rose”! Again she caught the conscious
determination of restraint. There was no longer a question about the
meaning of her eager, tender tones. She was in love with Manning!
Ellen felt her knees suddenly give and her hand gripped the rail
within two feet of their heads. She steadied herself and listened.
“I know you only wrote the story,” Rose insisted, “but my auntie’s too
generous to allow you to be denied the credit of half the work.”
“You think I’ve done half?” he asked.
“Of course, auntie says so too.”
“But I don’t know a thing about playwriting, child. It’s all Greek to
me. I refuse to pose as a dramatist.”
“Why don’t you write stories, then?” she suddenly asked in low eager
tones.
Ellen could see the little soft hand unconsciously gripping his arm
with the question.
“You think I could?” he asked carelessly.
“I know you could! You could write a big novel if you tried.”
“Think so?”
“I know it.”
“Would you do the typewriting for me?”
“If auntie will let me. I’m sure she would. She’ll feel terribly when
she finds out your name’s not on the program.”
Ellen could hear no more. She felt her way through the darkness and
down the aisle to her seat again.
The play faded from her brain. The fourth act was called and played to
the finish without a single scene or word reaching her.
The tragedy of her own life blinded her in sickening, vivid flashes.
Rose could not dream of the truth of her relations to Manning. Her love
had been the normal development of their daily association under such
conditions. His high sense of honor and loyalty had held him from word
or deed that might betray his feelings.
It couldn’t be possible that he had really fallen in love with this
simple child! But four years had passed since their mystic wedding
night in the log cottage on the cliff. They had their quarrels and
differences as all people of positive personality must in daily contact
with one another. But this----
“Oh, dear God, no--no--no!” she sobbed in anguish. “It can’t be
true--it just can’t!”
And yet the longer she thought of it, the more probable the thing
became. His ideal of home and children had been a deathless passion
from the first. Her failure to satisfy this passion had been the secret
of their quarrels and unhappiness. Rose had suddenly appeared the image
of his first love, born again in vivid fascinating youth, with every
beat of her heart keeping time to his dream.
Her heart sank in panic. How could he help falling in love with her?
She was young, she was beautiful, she was sweet and unselfish. And her
ideal was the old-fashioned one of passionate self-sacrifice.
And yet when she recalled their conversation no word of love had
been spoken or hinted between them. Why had she leaped at this wild
conclusion?
She pulled herself together.
She would watch and wait developments. To send her niece home was
unthinkable. She had become a part of her own life. She loved her
dearly. To confess her fears to the man on whom she had forced a free
alliance was equally impossible.
At one o’clock the rehearsal closed. She said good-night to Manning in
a stupor.
“I’m too tired to talk, dear,” she whispered to him wearily. “Don’t
come home with me. Rose and I will walk alone and get some fresh air.”
“All right, to-morrow night, then, for the great event! I’ll meet you
here at seven-thirty.”
Rose chattered for half a dozen blocks in endless, joyful excitement.
She paused at last, conscious of something wrong.
“What’s the matter, honey?” she questioned, anxiously trying to peer
into Ellen’s eyes. She had just passed her twenty-first birthday
and had begun in moments of stress to use the old Southern word of
endearment to express anxiety or tenderness.
“Just worn to a frazzle, dear,” her aunt replied. “I’m so sore and worn
out with that miserable rehearsal. It was the very worst we ever had. I
feel as if I could die with a sense of joyous relief.”
The girl’s grip tightened on her arm.
“I was so scared for a minute. I was afraid you were sick.”
“I’ll be all right to-morrow, honey,” Ellen answered, smiling wanly.
Rose was quick to match the imitation of her pet name.
“You don’t mind if I call you ‘Honey,’ do you?” she asked timidly. “You
know how I love you!”
“Of course not, silly child.”
She laid her hand tenderly on Rose’s.
“I love you, too, my sweet little miniature. I just haven’t learned to
be as happy as you are.”
Through a night of soul-searching questions Ellen faced the tragedy
whose shadows she felt creeping closer.