Her work proved invaluable distraction for the greater part of that long
and lonely Sunday. When not at her typewriter she was tormented by
alternate fits of burning chagrin and of equally ardent gratitude toward
Matthias. Had this last been in town and chanced to meet her, she must
either have quitted him definitely or have betrayed her passion
unmistakably even to the purblind eyes of a dreaming dramatist. As it
was, the girl had time to calm down, to recognize at once his
disinterestedness and her own folly. If her infatuation did but deepen
in contemplation of his generosity, she none the less regained poise
before bedtime and with it her determination to succeed in spite of her
stupidity, if only to justify his kindness.
But the morning that took her back to rehearsals found her in a mood of
dire misgivings. She would have forfeited much--anything other than
their further association--to have been spared the impending encounter
with Matthias. And although the author was not present when she reached
the theatre, her embarrassment hampered her to a degree that rendered
her attempts to act more than ever farcical.
Wilbrow, seated in a chair on the "apron" of the stage, his back to the
lifeless footlights, did not interrupt her once; but despair was patent
in his attitude, and despair informed his eyes, and not long after her
scene was finished the producer for the first time betrayed indications
of temper.
"Blaine!" he said abruptly in a chilling voice to one of the minor
actors--"don't you _know_ there's a window over there--up left centre?"
The player thus addressed, who had been idling purposelessly near the
centre of the stage, looked up with a face of blank surprise.
"Sure," he said--"sure I know it."
"That's something, at least!" Wilbrow commented acidly. "I'm glad you
remember it. If I'm not mistaken, I've reminded you of that window twice
every day since Monday."
"Yes," agreed the other with a look of painful concentration; "I guess
that's right, too."
"And yet you can't remember what I've told you just as often--that I
want you to be up there, looking out of the window, when _Sylvia_
enters!"
The actor turned out expostulatory palms. "But, Mr. Wilbrow, what for? I
don't see--"
"Because," the producer interrupted incisively, "the stage directions
indicate it; because the significance of this scene requires you
to be there, looking out, unaware of _Sylvia's_ entrance; because
you look better there; because it dresses the stage; because you're
in the way anywhere else; because I--God help me!--because
_I--want--you--to--be--there_!"
A smothered giggle broke from a group of players technically off-stage.
Wilbrow glared icily toward that quarter.
"Yes, I know," Blaine agreed intelligently. "But how do I _get_ there?"
The front legs of Wilbrow's chair rapped the boards smartly as he jumped
up. In silence, he grasped Blaine's arm and with a slightly exaggerated
melodramatic stride propelled him to the indicated spot, released him,
and stood back.
"Walk!" he announced with an inimitable gesture of tolerant contempt;
and went back to his chair. Not a line of his face had changed. He sat
down, nodded to the leading woman.
"All right, Mary," he said; and to another actor: "Now, the cue for
_Sylvia_, please!"
Joan shivered a little.
Matthias did not come in until after the girl had finished her part in
the afternoon rehearsal. She caught sight of him in the darkened
auditorium just as she went off; and hurried from the house in tremulous
dread.
But a meeting was inevitable; and that evening, just before the dinner
hour, found her reluctantly knuckling the door of the back-parlour. The
voice of Matthias bade her enter, and she drew upon all her scant store
of courage as she turned the knob. To her immense relief he was not
alone. Rideout and Moran, the scene painter, were in consultation with
Matthias over two small model stages set with painted pasteboard
scenery.
Matthias greeted her with a preoccupied smile and nod.
"Oh, good evening, Miss Thursday. More 'script, eh? Thank you."
Silently Joan gave him the manuscript and left the room. But the door
had no sooner closed than it was re-opened and again closed. She turned
to face this dreaded crisis.
His smile was friendly and pleasant if a trace uncertain. He made as if
to offer his hand, and thought better of it.
"Oh, Miss Thursday.... I sent you a note...."
She nodded, timid eyes avoiding his.
"Am I forgiven?"
"I--I--if you'll forgive me--" she faltered.
"Then that's all right!" he cried heartily. "I'm glad," he added with
unquestionable sincerity--"and sorry I was such a brute. I ought to have
understood what a strain you'd been under. Shall we say no more about
it?"