BURIED ALIVE
FOR Ellen West the première of her first play was an event of minor
importance, completely submerged in the flood of misery which swept her
soul.
The audience received the piece coldly. Its brilliant dialogue made no
headway against their indifference to the theme of social propaganda.
The fashionable crowd came to be amused. They resented instruction.
Ellen saw the fatal notice posted at eleven o’clock on the bulletin
board announcing the close at the end of the customary two weeks. It
was a matter of supreme indifference to her whether it closed or ran
ten years.
Rose gripped her arm and stared at the notice.
“What are they going to close it for, auntie?”
“It’s a failure, my dear.”
“Failure,” she gasped.
“A ‘frost,’ the manager kindly told me.”
“Why, they laughed and cheered.”
“Yes, child, we had some personal friends out front who did the best
they could for us.”
Rose was the only one of the three who took the failure seriously.
Manning’s spirits rebounded immediately, although he had thought a
success assured. He had planned an elaborate supper at the Astor in
celebration. In reality, he meant that the two authors should give the
supper in honor of their little typewriter girl, whose joy would be
tenfold greater than theirs.
“We’ll celebrate anyhow!” he announced cheerfully as he read the
bulletin.
“I’d rather not,” Ellen protested.
“Nonsense; come along, the supper’s all ordered.”
Ellen shook her head.
“Please, auntie, I’ve never been to the Astor.”
There was no help for it. She couldn’t refuse Rose’s eager plea.
The throng in the restaurant depressed Ellen’s spirits. Every table
was crowded with gay theatre parties. The chatter and laughing was
continuous. The music seemed a double mockery. Her heart was lead.
The thing that puzzled and still further alarmed her was the bubbling
gaiety with which Manning took the failure. There was something
sinister about it. No man could throw months of hard work into the
waste basket with a laugh unless he had some secret joy in his heart.
She watched his attitude toward Rose. His face was a mask of friendly
conventional propriety. She studied the tones of his voice. In not a
single word or accent did he betray the slightest interest beyond that
which an author might feel in the disappointment of his typewriter girl
over the failure of his work.
The supper was finished and he had lighted a cigar before the
announcement came that took her breath.
“You wonder why I’m gay to-night?” he asked Ellen.
“Yes.”
“I’ve something more exciting to think about than our failure. I don’t
know the trick of the play anyhow. But I’ve always had a sneaking idea
that I could write a novel----”
He paused. Ellen’s heart fairly stopped its beat and Rose’s eyes danced
with excitement.
“The whole story flashed on me last night after the rehearsal,” he
went on eagerly. “I worked out the plot in two hours, went to bed and
slept soundly. I got up this morning with the whole thing a living
inspiration. I can see my characters as clearly as if I’d known them a
lifetime. I can write it in two months. The die is cast--the Rubicon
crossed. I quit the soul-racking grind of a daily newspaper to-morrow.”
“Give up your position?” Ellen gasped.
“Without a sigh. I’ve saved enough to live two years. The worst that
could happen would be a failure. I can always make a living on a paper
if I have to. But what’s the use of living a slave’s life if you can be
free? Why crawl if you can fly? I believe I can fly.”
“I just know it,” Rose broke in enthusiastically.
“You’re very foolish to give up your big job on Brown’s paper until you
try your wings,” Ellen observed evenly.
“I tried them last night and they worked. All I need is the chance to
concentrate every ounce of my brains on this one job until it’s done. I
shall resent the necessity of eating and sleeping. I suppose I’ll have
to yield a point there. But on all others, I shall be adamant--no mail,
no telephone calls, no visitors, no communication with the world until
I find my pathway among the stars!”
Ellen’s eyes flashed with anger. Rose’s face was a curious mixture of
elation and disappointment.
“How’ll you get the manuscript to me for the typewriter?” she faltered.
“Send it by a messenger from my secret den.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. I’ll clear out of my apartment to shake the boys. I’ll take a
bare room in a good boarding-house, where I can have my meals served
alone on my desk and bury myself there for two months. I’ll emerge
with the finished book in my hands or I’ll die in the effort.”
Rose clapped her hands and laughed.
“You can do it! I know you can; don’t you believe it, auntie?”
“Such things have been done, my dear,” was the grave answer.
“And you begin to-morrow?” she added.
“To-morrow at ten o’clock. I’ve already found my den and given up my
job.”
“Oh, my, isn’t it exciting!” Rose exclaimed.
Ellen felt a hot tear dimming her eyes in spite of her iron will. The
subtle cruelty of his scheme of announcing his break with her for two
months before Rose, where protest or argument would be impossible,
fairly stunned her. To argue before Rose was, of course, out of the
question. To argue at all under such circumstances her pride would
forbid. On this he had reckoned with absolute certainty.
This sudden sweeping inspiration might be a fact, or it might be the
simplest subterfuge through which to break their love relations for two
months. If he had waked suddenly to the realization that he had wearied
of her and fallen in love with her niece, his inner sense of honor and
decency would make a break inevitable. He could have hit on no safer
or more delicate scheme.
She could but admire his ingenuity. Yet nothing could still the
dull, suffocating ache within. Submission to his voluntary exile was
inevitable. She felt herself choking for a moment, recovered herself,
and spoke with gentle irony:
“I’m afraid Rose and I will miss you very much.”
“Terribly!” Rose added.
“It’ll be done in a jiffy, and I’ll emerge an author.”
His faith was so strong and so genuine Ellen caught its contagion. He
certainly meant it. She knew him too well--knew the processes of his
mind too intimately to doubt now that he was in dead earnest.
She reproached herself for her doubts at all. Had he not proven his
sincerity by resigning his position and risking all on the venture?
She tried to smile an honest wish for success when she took his hand to
say good-night as he handed them into a cab. She still half hoped that
he would accompany them home and steal a chance for a word alone. He
made no sign and she knew that he wished to avoid it.
“You know that I wish you the greatest success of your life in this mad
venture. I shall await your return from the grave.”
“Send me the manuscript as fast as you can,” Rose said. “I’ll be just
crazy to read it! And I’ll see it first, won’t I? I’ll let auntie read
the nice clean copy.”
“And send it back to me; two copies, won’t you, as fast as it’s done,
chapter by chapter?”
His voice was casually business-like. If he were in love with Rose, he
was a past master in the control of his emotions.
Ellen pressed his hand with a little grip of parting anguish and sank
back to her seat in the shadows in time to prevent his seeing the tears
that came in spite of her effort at self-control. She brushed them away
before Rose could notice her emotion.