THE LEADING LADY
The days that followed were busy and pleasant ones for Ruth. Even when
her doubt concerning the wisdom of engaging Layton Boardman and thus
inviting Sol Bloomberg’s enmity would crop up, she put it resolutely
from her. She certainly did not intend to borrow trouble.
Then, too, she thought often of Tom’s laughing remark concerning the
attractive western actor. Could it be that Tom was really inclined to be
jealous of this man, whom, so far, she hardly knew? The idea was too
absurd to be seriously considered.
Helen and Chess were openly happy over the good fortune of the latter.
The big business deal which had been hanging fire for some time held
almost the certainty of success, now that Chess had secured the
necessary amount of credit to push it through.
No wonder they were happy! Their happiness was contagious, which was one
reason, perhaps, that Ruth found herself in such high spirits during
that time.
The local paper came out with an account of the fire and of the part
Ruth and the others had played in it. The fire had really been a small
affair and the theater was once more running as usual, the new film
drawing crowded houses.
But “Snowblind” was being shown elsewhere, too--six sets of films of the
picture had been made--and Ruth was eager to see what critics in other
cities would have to say about it. As the city newspapers came in she
read the notices eagerly, as did Tom.
“A knockout, Ruth!” cried the young man. “A regular knockout
everywhere!” And he was right, in every city where it was shown
“Snowblind” was a big success.
Ruth’s chums still stayed on in Cheslow. They visited the Red Mill
almost every day, occasionally staying to dinner or some other meal, and
they never failed to declare that they were having the “time of their
lives.”
They were receiving a good deal of attention from the young men of
Cheslow, and, since most of these were well-off and owned their own
cars, the girls naturally did not lack for pleasant occupation. Jennie,
as chaperone, was enjoying herself hugely. It was not in Jennie to be
formal, still in France, as Madame Marchand, she put some restraint on
herself, which now in the midst of her old school friends she threw off
entirely and became once more the old “Heavy” Stone of their Briarwood
days.
Ruth was, of course, invited to attend all these parties, and at first
her old friends seemed a bit offended when she refused, pleading her
work.
However, it was not long before, with Helen’s loyal assistance, they
were able to understand that Ruth’s work did make heavy demands on her
time and was not a light pastime to be attended to in odd moments.
If it had not been such a particularly busy time with Ruth she would
have liked nothing better than to have joined in all the fun with her
friends. As it was, she was able to accompany them once in a while, and
she never failed to return from one of the merrymakings strengthened in
mind and with a fund of fresh enthusiasm for her work.
Meanwhile plans for the house party which she meant to give her old
school chums before the end of their visit were taking definite shape.
Although the accommodations of the house at the Red Mill were limited
she could manage to put the girls up for a night; at least, all except
Mercy, who lived in Cheslow, and Helen, who would go back with Tom and
the other young fellows whom Ruth had already invited to the party.
Ruth had made inquiries in Cheslow and found that she could secure the
services of a young girl to help Aunt Alvirah with the work.
It would be a lark, and Ruth was looking forward to it eagerly.
Meanwhile, there was a great deal of work to be done. Ruth was anxious
to finish all details connected with her new picture so that they might
start for Montana as soon as possible.
The script was finished. She had gone over it with Tom and, still later,
with Layton Boardman.
Both young men were pleasantly enthusiastic. The actor had offered
suggestions here and there that, Ruth felt, strengthened the script.
She liked Layton Boardman’s free and easy western manner that was yet
always pleasant and respectful to her. And she liked the way he took
hold of the part she offered him. She became more and more convinced
that she had found the right actor for her drama.
Another thing that engaged her attention was the problem of the feminine
lead. She could not use Anita Townsend, the star of “Snowblind.” It was
not the rôle suited to Anita. She must have an actress for the lead in
“Hearts of the Mountains,” and that quickly.
She and Tom had discussed most of the stars on the horizon and found the
majority of them--at least those fitted for the part--tied up already by
handsome contracts.
“Viola Callahan is the ideal one for our purpose,” said Ruth, in one of
her many conferences with Tom. “And I think her five-year contract with
Brennan has about run out. Still----”
“Try her and see,” suggested Tom. “The most she can do is refuse.”
But Viola did not refuse. Like the majority of shining stars in Filmdom,
she had chosen to exercise her temperament, and in a fit of rage had
thrown her contract--literally--in the face of an outraged manager.
Since this contract was nearly expired, having only three weeks to run,
and since the fair Viola had allowed her temper to run away with her
several times during the past five years with disastrous results to the
company in general, Mr. Brennan had decided--with a sigh of relief--to
let his western beauty go.
Now, it is one thing to throw your contract away and quite another to
have it politely handed back to you with the request that you keep it
and do with it what you please. The pride of a genius would not allow
Viola to humble herself to the point of asking the polite Mr. Brennan
for a chance to go on again, so she found herself, for the first time in
many years, without a sign of a job.
Viola did not fancy this very much, and was in a state of mind to
receive Ruth’s overtures graciously.
So it came to pass that not long after her conversation with Tom, Ruth
found herself in audience with the fair Viola herself.
Viola seemed out of place, someway, in the quaint, old-fashioned living
room of the Red Mill. She was flamboyant in dress and action and so
overflowing with vitality that one felt her presence in a room even
before she began to speak. And then, to use Ruth’s own phrase, “one was
simply overwhelmed with Viola.”
The girl had beauty after a fashion, although the screen did something
to her features, softened them, refined them, made them infinitely more
appealing than they appeared in the full and brutal light of day.
But Ruth had seen the girl on the screen many times, knew that she could
act, and in her picture would be an effective opposite to Layton
Boardman.
Viola rather took her breath away on the subject of salary. However,
after considerable hesitation, Ruth signed her up at a figure which she
knew was going to cause considerable worry in the weeks to come. With
Viola’s salary to be paid every week, there would be little allowance
for delay or drawback of any kind. And in the making of a picture,
delays and drawbacks are the rule.
After the business part of the interview was at an end, Viola chose to
become expansive, taking Ruth into her confidence almost, as Ruth said
afterward to Tom, as though Ruth were an old friend.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” she said, wandering about the room,
touching small ornaments here and there. “Old-fashioned and homey with
plenty of windows and sun coming in at them. The kind of place me and
Tony was to have sometime.” She heaved a huge sigh and Ruth looked at
her curiously.
“Tony?” she repeated. “Do you mean Tony Martano?”
Tony Martano was a name well known in the picture world, though the man
himself had never risen beyond the rank of second-rate player.
Viola stopped roaming about the room and sat down in a big chair close
to Ruth’s, assuming a languid posture. She seemed willing, almost eager,
to talk of her blighted romance.
“You know how handsome Tony is,” she said. “Well, I guess it was his
looks that got me, for there’s nothing inside here,” she tapped her
forehead significantly, “but a solid mass of bone.”
Ruth laughed.
“I always thought he was a pretty good actor,” she said.
“What he got, his looks got for him,” Viola said with brutal frankness.
“If he’d had an ounce of brains he’d have edged some other leading man
off the map long before this. It only goes to show,” with another
tremendous sigh, “that love is a funny thing.”
“Then you love him still?” asked Ruth. She was rather taken aback by
this frankness on the part of Viola, especially to one who but a few
moments before had been a total stranger. However, she supposed a great
many things could be laid to that mysterious thing called temperament.
Something told her that Viola was full of temperament!
“Love him!” cried Viola, rolling her large and rather prominent black
eyes. “What I wouldn’t do for that man! And do you know,” she leaned
forward and fixed Ruth with a tragic gaze, “the only thing that stands
between us and a little nest of our own?”
“What?” asked Ruth, with difficulty keeping herself from smiling.
“Jealousy!” hissed Viola, and settled back with a satisfied compression
of her overfull lips.
“What kind of jealousy?” asked Ruth, bewildered. “Yours or his,
professional or personal?”
“His!” snapped Viola, evidently put out that this could be misunderstood
even for a moment. “And it’s entirely professional. That’s what proves
him a bonehead. No one should ever let anything stand in the way of
love--do you think so?” Viola had become languorous again and Ruth
stirred restlessly beneath her look. She wished suddenly that the girl
would go. There were so many things to do!
“No,” she said in answer to a repeated question from her guest, “I don’t
suppose anything ought to stand in the way of love--if it’s the right
kind.”
She thought of these words after Viola had gone and smiled a bit
ruefully herself.
“I wonder if I meant that? At any rate I don’t practice what I preach,”
she told herself. And still later, in reviewing that interview with
Viola, she added: “I don’t like that girl. For some reason I distrust
her, though I can’t for the life of me tell why!”