The demand served only to deepen her resentment, and the second
repetition differed not materially from the first.
Ceasing to speak, she flounced away, but Wilbrow's voice brought her
back.
"Very good, Miss Thursday," he said mildly--"very good indeed. But
why--in the name of Mike!--if you _could_ do it--why wouldn't you until
now?"
"Because," Joan stammered--"because--!"
But she didn't dare say what she wished to, and checked her tongue in a
fit of sulks more eloquent than any words she could have found.
Wilbrow waited an instant, then laughed quite cheerfully.
"The usual reason, eh? I might have guessed you had a sure-'nough one
concealed about you.... That's all for today. Tomorrow morning at nine."
Privately pondering this experience, Joan surprised its secret, and
drew from it a conclusion that was to have an important influence upon
her professional future: in order to act convincingly, she must herself
feel the emotions accredited to her part. As applied to her individual
temperament, at that stage of its development, this rule had all the
inflexibility of an axiom. Others might--as others do--act in obedience
to the admonitions of their intelligence: Joan could at that stage act
only according to the promptings of her emotional self.
So she encouraged herself to hate Wilbrow with all her heart, to despise
him without ceasing night or day; no charitable thought of the manager
was suffered to gain access to her humour at any hour. And so admirably
did she succeed in impregnating her mind with virulent dislike of the
man, that she afforded him no end of amusement. She made a point of
coming to the rehearsals early enough to infuriate herself with
contemplation of him in the flesh; and of walking up and down, before
and between her scenes, thinking evil of him. The twinkle with which his
eyes followed her, in place of their erstwhile calm indifference or
resignation, worked only to intensify her rancour. Curiously enough, a
clear comprehension of the illogical absurdity of it all made her temper
even more bitter.
One day just before the final rehearsals, Wilbrow, meeting her at the
stage-door, planted his slender body squarely in her way.
"Good morning!" he said cheerfully, with a semi-malicious smile. "My
congratulations, Miss Thursday! You're doing nobly."
"Thanks," Joan said curtly, pausing perforce.
"You ought to be very grateful to me. Are you?"
"No."
"I wonder what you'd do under the direction of a man you happened to
like?"
"I don't know." Joan gave him a sullen look. "Will you please let me
pass."
"Delighted." He moved aside with mocking courtesy. "I ask only one thing
of you: don't fall in love with me before our first night. I haven't got
time to sour another sweet young thing's amiable disposition.... Keep on
hating me as hard as you like--and we'll make at least a half-portion
actress of you yet...."
Toward the end of the second week, Joan began to notice that Rideout was
growing less assiduous in attendance. At first inclined to lay this to
his satisfaction with the progress--to her the production seemed to be
taking on form and colour in a way to wonder at--she later overheard a
chance remark of one of her associates, to the effect that Rideout was
himself rehearsing with another company.
"Well," someone commented, "if it was my coin back of this show, I'd
stick by it if I had to play the office-boy."
"I guess," was the reply, "Rideout ain't got any too much outside what
he's sunk in this production. Shouldn't wonder if he needs what he's to
get with Minnie Aspen."
"Mebbe. He's a good trouper. What does he drag down, anyway?"
"Four hundred a week."
"Nix with those Lambs' Club figures. I mean regular money."
"Oh, two hundred and fifty, sure."
"Now you've said something...."
During the third week it was announced that "The Jade God" would open in
Altoona on the following Monday. And at the same time Joan discovered
that she was expected to provide her own costume, a simple affair but
unhappily beyond the resources of either her wardrobe or her
pocket-book. In despair she took the advice of Mrs. Arnold (the
sweet-faced lady of fifty, whom Joan counted her only friend on the
company) and approached Rideout's personal representative, Druggett,
with a demand for an advance. With considerable reluctance Druggett
surrendered fifteen dollars, and promised her as much more on Monday,
toward expenses on the road. And again on the advice and introduction of
Mrs. Arnold, the girl succeeded in satisfying her needs at an
instalment-plan clothing-house: paying eight dollars down on a bill of
about forty and agreeing to remit the balance at the rate of four
dollars each week.
The final dress-rehearsal was called for Saturday morning. They were to
leave New York Sunday night. But on Friday afternoon a sense of
uneasiness and uncertainty invaded the temper of the organization.
Wilbrow neglected the players to engage in protracted conferences with
Matthias, Rideout, Moran, and Druggett, out of earshot, at the back of
the auditorium. One or two weather-wise "troupers" hazarded gloomy
surmises as to the nature of the "snag": that most favoured involved a
"shake-up with the Shuberts" over some change in their route. With a
singular unanimity the prophets of disaster either avoided or overlooked
the actual cause of the trouble.
At ten o'clock the next morning--a little late--Joan, with her costume
in the dilapidated wicker suit-case, hurried into the theatre to find
the company scattered about the stage in poses variously suggestive of
restless dejection. Neither the star nor the leading woman was present,
and there was no scenery in sight, other than that belonging to the
production which occupied the same stage nightly. Rideout was nowhere to
be seen, but the author, the producer, and Druggett were engaged in
earnest but inaudible argument "out front." From their manner Joan
inferred that Druggett was advocating some course actively opposed by
Wilbrow and passively by Matthias. The group broke up before she found
opportunity to question her associates. Druggett, in manifest dudgeon,
turned sharply and marched out of the house, while Wilbrow strode
purposefully back to the stage by way of the passage behind the boxes,
Matthias following with an air of profound disgust and despondency.
From the centre of the stage the producer addressed the little
gathering.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he said sharply; and waited until he had all
their attention. "There'll be no rehearsal today, and--and unless
something quite unexpected happens, we won't open Monday. The truth is,
there isn't money enough behind this show to finance it beyond Altoona.
Moran can't collect on his scenery, and won't deliver. Mr. Matthias has
offered to fix Moran up if we agree to go out, but I can't see it that
way. Mr. Rideout's proposition is that we go on the road and run our
chances of making expenses--but I don't have to tell you people what a
swell show we'd have of breaking even on a tank route at this season of
the year--hot weather still with us, and all that. We _might_--but
that's about all you can say. And I don't think any of us want to count
ties from Altoona....
"Mr. Druggett thinks that Mr. Rideout will be able to make a deal with
the Shuberts, but I doubt it. Just now they're all tied up with their
own productions and have no time to waste on a gambling risk like this.
Of course, if I'm wrong, you'll all be notified. But I wouldn't, if I
were you, pass up another engagement on the off-chance of this thing
panning out after all.
"I'm sorry about this--we're all sorry, naturally. We all lose. Mr.
Matthias here loses as much as any of us--the rights in a valuable
property for several months, at the inside. I'm out fifteen hundred
dollars I was to get for putting the show on. And Rideout's out the two
thousand real coin he's invested in expectation of backing which failed
to materialize. Personally I refused to shoulder the responsibility of
letting you go out in ignorance of the real state of affairs. That's
all."
He hesitated an instant, as if not satisfied that he had dealt fully
with the situation, and glanced a little ruefully from face to face of
the company. But for the moment none made any comment. And with an
uncertain nod to the author, Wilbrow turned and disappeared through the
stage-door.
Matthias waited a trifle longer, as though anticipating trouble with the
disappointed players; but there was no feeling manifest in their
attitude toward him other than sympathy for a fellow-sufferer. And
presently he consulted his watch and followed the stage-director.
Those left in the theatre discussed the contretemps in subdued and
regretful accents, betraying surprisingly little rancour toward anyone
connected with it. Even Rideout escaped with slight censure. He was, in
the final analysis, one of them--an incurable optimist who had erred
only in banking too heavily on hope and promises.
By twos and threes they gathered up their belongings and straggled off
upon their various ways, a sorry, philosophic crew. Within ten minutes
their dissociation was final and absolute.