The rehearsals of "Tomorrow's People" were arranged to begin on the
twenty-third day of September; and since all the important rôles had
been filled before he left Town, and Wilbrow, whom he could trust, had
charge of all other details, Matthias delayed his home-coming until the
twenty-second.
Not until the twentieth did he emerge from the wilderness up back of the
Allagash country into the comparative civilization of Moosehead Lake. In
eight weeks he had not written a line, received a letter, or read a
newspaper. But, as he telegraphed Helena from the Mt. Kineo House, he
was so healthy that he was ashamed of it.
The day-letter telegram she sent in reply was delivered on the train.
Its news, though condensed, was reassuring: Venetia was well and her boy
developing into a famous ruffian; the two were making a visit at
Tanglewood, and on the return of Marbridge from his summer in Europe
would move back to New York, where Venetia was to reassume charge of his
town-house.
Thus satisfied as to the welfare of the woman he loved, Matthias gave
himself up completely to the production of his play; and through the
following four weeks lived in the theatre by day, dreamed of it by
night, thought, talked, and wrote only in its singular terminology.
Few facts unconnected with his own play penetrated his understanding, in
all that period. But, dining with Wilbrow one night at the general table
in the Players, he overheard Gloucester railing bitterly at the
ill-fortune which had induced him to pledge himself to stage a modern
satirical comedy for Arlington and to train for the leading part a raw
and almost inexperienced stage-struck girl.
He detailed his trials in vivid phrases:
"As far as I know, she's never played in anything except a bum
vaudeville sketch, and I had hell's own time making her fit to play
_that_. And yet she's got the ineffable nerve to keep picking at my way
of doing things on the general ground that it ain't Tom Wilbrow's. Seems
he had the privilege of rehearsing her for a five-side part in that punk
show of Jack Matthias', that went to pieces out on the Coast last
Summer. If Wilbrow wasn't listening with all his ears, over there, I'd
tell you what I said to the young woman the last time she threw him in
my face.... What?... Oh, nobody you ever heard of. Calls herself
Thursday--Joan Thursday.... Of course I rowed with Arlington about her,
but he only shrugged and grinned and said she had to play it and I'd got
to make her play it--offered to bet me a thousand over and above my fees
I couldn't do it.... Sure, I took him up. Why not? I'll make her act it
yet. I could make a Casino chorus boy act human if I wasn't so
squeamish.... Oh, Marbridge--one of his discoveries. I saw him handing
her gently into that big, brazen touring-car of his, in front of
Rector's, night before last. Fragile's the word--'handle with care!'"
Wilbrow, interrogated, supplied the context. Arlington had bought up,
through a third party, Mrs. Cardrow's interest in "Mrs. Mixer," advising
her to sell out because the play had already scored one failure and
promising her another play in which she would stand better chance to win
New York audiences. This was an old comedy from the French, revamped,
and was even then being rehearsed with a scrub company and a scratch
outfit of scenery, the production to be made on the same night that
"Mrs. Mixer" was to tempt fate with Joan Thursday; the designated date
being the twenty-fifth of October, a Wednesday.
Matthias promptly dismissed the matter from his mind: he speculated a
little, hazily about Marbridge, in his constitutional inability to
understand that gentleman, felt more than ever sorry for Venetia and
wondered how much longer she would stand it all--and plunged again into
his preoccupation.
"Tomorrow's People" was announced for production on Monday, October the
twenty-third. But after the dress-rehearsal on Sunday certain changes
recommended themselves as advisable to the judgment of the author, who
persuaded the management to postpone the opening night until Wednesday.
At ten minutes to twelve on that night the final curtain fell upon a
successful representation; an audience in its wraps blocked the aisles
until after midnight, applauding and demanding the author; who, however,
was not in the theatre.
He had, in fact, not been near it since the curtain, falling on the
first act, had persuaded him of the general friendliness of an audience
and the competency of the company. This culmination of a nerve-racking
strain which had endured without respite for over a month found him
without courage to await the verdict. He took to the streets and walked
himself weary in vain effort to refrain from circling back toward the
building whose walls housed his fate.
At length, in desperation hoping to distract his thoughts from the
supreme issue, he purchased a ticket of admission to another theatre,
above whose entrance blazed the announcement "Mrs. Mixer," and stationed
himself at the back of the orchestra to witness the last part of the
performance.
He saw the self-confidence of Gloucester supremely justified: the
satiric farce marched steadily, scene by scene, to a success that was to
keep it on Broadway through the winter and make the name of Joan
Thursday a house-hold word throughout the Union. Her personal success
was as unquestionable as her beauty; she played with grace, vivacity,
charm, and distinction; and only to the initiate of the theatre was it
apparent that Gloucester had found in her the perfect medium for the
transmission of his art. Matthias could see, in company with a few of
the more discriminating and stage-wise, that she employed not a gesture,
intonation or bit of business which had not originated with Gloucester;
she brought to her rôle on her part nothing but beauty and an unshakable
self-confidence so thoroughly ingrained that it escaped suggesting
self-consciousness. The triumph was, rightly, first Gloucester's, then
the play's; but the public acclaimed the actress, and the one acidulated
critic who hailed her, the following morning, as "at last!--the perfect
human kinetophone record!" was listened to by none, least of all by the
subject of his sarcasm. Marbridge, in a stage box, led the applause at
the conclusion of each act; and at the end of the play Arlington came in
person before the curtain, leading by the hand the gracefully reluctant
Joan, and in a few suave sentences thanked the audience for its
appreciation and a beneficent Providence for granting him this
opportunity of fixing a new star in the theatrical firmament: the name
of "this little girl," he promised (bowing to Joan) would appear in
letters of fire over the theatre, the next night....
Pausing in the lobby to light a cigarette before leaving, Matthias
overheard one of Arlington's lieutenants confiding to another the news
of the ruinous failure of the third initial production of that night.
Half an hour later he met Wilbrow by appointment in a quiet,
non-theatrical club, and received from him confirmation of rumours which
had already reached him of his own triumph with "Tomorrow's People."
"You're a made man now," Wilbrow told him with sincere good will and
some little honest envy; "by tomorrow morning the pack will be at your
heels, yapping for a chance to put on every old 'script in your trunk."
"I suppose so," Matthias nodded soberly.
"But there's one comfort about that," Wilbrow pursued cheerfully:
"whatever the temptation, you won't give 'em anything but sound, sane,
workmanlike stuff. You've proved yourself one of the two or three, at
most, playwrights in this country who are able to think and to make an
audience think without losing sight of the fact that, in the last
analysis, 'the play's the thing.' We've got plenty of authors nowadays
who can turn out first-chop melodrama, and we've got a respectable
percentage of 'em who write plays so full of honest and intelligent
thought that it gives the average manager a headache to look at the
'script; but the men who can give us the sort of drama that not only
makes you think but holds you on the front edge of your seat waiting to
see what's coming next.... Well, they're few and far between, and you're
one of 'em, and I'm proud to have had a hand in putting you before the
public!"
"You've got nothing on me, there," Matthias grinned: "I'm proud you had.
And if I can get my own way after this--"
"You don't need to join the I-Should-Worries on account of that!"
"You'll be the only man who will ever produce one of my plays."
Between one o'clock and two they parted. Matthias trudged home,
completely fagged in body, but with a buoyant heart to sustain him.
Venetia would be glad for him....
He was ascending the steps of Number 289 when a heavy touring-car,
coming from the direction of Longacre Square, swung in to the curb and
stopped. Latch-key in hand, Matthias paused and looked back in some
little surprise: the lodgers of Madame Duprat were a motley lot, but as
far as he knew none of them were of the class that maintains expensive
automobiles. But this car, upon inspection, proved to be tenanted by the
chauffeur alone; who, leaving the motor purring, jumped smartly from his
seat and ran up the steps.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, touching his cap, "but I'm looking
for a gentleman named Matthias--"
"I am Mr. Matthias."
"Thank you, sir. I've been sent to fetch you. It's--er--important, I
fancy," the man added, eyeing Matthias curiously.
"You've been sent to fetch me? But who sent you?"
"My employer, sir--Mr. Marbridge."
"Marbridge!" Matthias echoed, startled. Without definite decision, he
turned and ran down the steps in company with the chauffeur: Venetia in
need of him, perhaps.... "What's happened?" he demanded. "Is Mrs.
Marbridge--?"
"If you'll just get in, sir," the man replied, "I'll tell you--as much
as I know--on the way. It'll save time."
He opened the door of the tonneau, but Matthias turned from it, walked
round the car, and climbed into the seat beside the driver's. With a nod
of satisfaction, the chauffeur joined him, threw in the power, and
deftly swung the ponderous vehicle about.
"Well?" Matthias asked as the machine shot across-town.
"Beg pardon, sir," the man replied after a moment--"but I'd rather not
say anything, if it's all the same to you."
"It isn't," Matthias insisted curtly. "I'm not on sufficiently friendly
terms with Mr. Marbridge for him to send for me without explanation."
"Yes, sir; but you see, part of my job is to keep my mouth shut."
"I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to forget that duty to some extent,
or else stop the car and let me out."
"Very good, sir. I don't suppose I can do any harm telling what little I
know. After supper tonight, Mr. Marbridge told me to take the car to the
garage and not to expect a call for it until sometime tomorrow morning;
but when I got there, he was already wanting me on the telephone. He
said there'd been an accident, and told me to find Mr. Arlington first
and then you, and ask you to come immediately."
"But why me?" Matthias asked, more of himself than of the driver.
"He didn't say, sir."
"Did he state what sort of an accident?"
"No, sir."
"You found Mr. Arlington?"
"No, sir; he wasn't in when I asked at his hotel. But I left a message
before coming on for you."
Matthias sat up with a start. Instead of turning up Broadway the man was
steering his car straight across Longacre Square. Before he had time to
comment on this fact they were speeding on toward Sixth Avenue.
"Look here," he cried, "you're not taking me to Mr. Marbridge's home!"
"No, sir."
"But--"
"Mr. Marbridge hadn't gone home when he telephoned me, sir."
"Where is he, then?"
"We'll be there in a minute, sir--an apartment house on Madison Avenue."
"Oh!" said Matthias thoughtfully. "Was Mr. Marbridge--ah--alone when you
left him tonight?"
"I'd rather not say, sir, if you don't mind."
Troubled by an inkling of the disaster, Matthias composed himself to
patience.
Turning south on Fifth Avenue, the car passed Thirty-fourth Street
before swinging eastward again. It stopped, eventually, in the side
street, just short of the corner of Madison Avenue, before a private
entrance to a ground-floor apartment, such as physicians prefer. But
Matthias could discern no physician's name-plate upon the door at which
his guide knocked, or in either of the flanking windows.
Opening, the door disclosed a panelled entry tenanted by a white-lipped
woman in the black and white uniform of a lady's-maid. Her frightened
eyes examined Matthias apprehensively as he entered, followed by the
chauffeur.