The Light of the Star: A Novel

by Hamlin Garland

  IX

  Helen was more deeply hurt and humiliated by her playwright's flightthan by the apparent failure of the play, but the two experiences comingtogether fairly stunned her. To have the curtain go down on her finalscenes to feeble and hesitating applause was a new and painfulexperience. Never since her first public reading had she failed to moveand interest her audience. What had happened? What had so swiftlyweakened her hold on her admirers? Up to that moment she had been surethat she could make any character successful.

  For a few moments she stood in the middle of the stage stifling with asense of mortification and defeat, then turned, and without a word orlook to any one went to her dressing-room.

  Her maid was deeply sympathetic, and by sudden impulse stooped andkissed her cheek, saying, "Never mind, Miss Merival, it was beautiful."

  This unexpected caress brought the tears to the proud girl's eyes."Thank you, Nora. Some of the audience will agree with you, I hope."

  "I'm sure of it, miss. Don't be downcast."

  Hugh knocked at the door. "Can you come out?"

  "Not now, Hugh. In a few moments."

  "There are some people here to see you--"

  She wanted to say, "I don't want to see them," but she only said,"Please ask them to wait."

  She knew by the tone of her brother's voice that he, too, was chokingwith indignation, and she dreaded the meeting with him and withWestervelt. She was sustained by the hope that Douglass would be thereto share her punishment. "Why had he not shown himself?" she askedagain, with growing resentment.

  When she came out fully dressed she looked tired and pale, but her headwas high and her manner proudly self-contained.

  Westervelt, surrounded by a small group of depressed auditors, amongwhom were Mrs. MacDavitt, Hugh, and Royleston, was holding forth in akind of bellow. "It proves what? Simply that they will not have her inthese preachy domestic parts, that's all. Every time she tries it shegets a 'knock.' I complain, I advise to the contrary. Does it do anygood? No. She must chance it, all to please this crank, this reformer."

  The mother, reading the disappointment and suffering in Helen's whiteface, reached for her tremulously and drew her to her bosom. "Nevermind what they say, Nellie; it was beautiful and it was true."

  Even Westervelt was awed by the calm look Helen turned on the group."You are very sure of yourself, Mr. Westervelt, but to my mind thisnight only proves that this audience came to hear me without intelligentdesign." She faced the silent group with white and weary face."Certainly Mr. Douglass's play is not for such an audience as that whichhas been gathering to see me as _The Baroness_, but that does not meanthat I have no other audience. There is a public for me in this higherwork. If there isn't, I will retire."

  Westervelt threw his hands in the air with a tragic gesture. "Retire! MyGott, that would be insanity!"

  Helen turned. "Come, mother, you are tired, and so am I. Mr. Westervelt,this is no place for this discussion. Good-night." She bowed to thefriends who had loyally gathered to greet her. "I am grateful to you foryour sympathy."

  There was, up to this time, no word of the author; but Hugh, as hewalked by her side, broke out resentfully, "Do you know that beggarplaywright--"

  "Not a word of him, Hugh," she said. "You don't know what that poorfellow is suffering. Our disappointment is nothing in comparison withhis. Think of what he has lost."

  "Nonsense! He has lost nothing, because he had nothing to lose. He getsus involved--"

  "Hugh!" There was something in her utterance of his name which silencedhim more effectually than a blow. "I produced this play of my own freewill," she added, a moment later, "and I will take the responsibility ofit."

  In the carriage the proud girl leaned back against the cushions, andpressed her two hands to her aching eyes, from which the tears streamed.It was all so tragically different from their anticipations. They wereto have had a little supper of jubilation together, to talk it allover, to review the evening's triumph, and now here she sat chill withdisappointment, while he was away somewhere in the great, heartless citysuffering tortures, alone and despairing.

  The sweet, old mother put her arm about her daughter's waist.

  "Don't cry, dearie; it will all come right. You can endure one failure.'Tis not as bad as it seems."

  Helen did not reply as she was tempted to do by saying, "It isn't mydefeat, it is his failure to stand beside me and receive his share ofthe disaster." And they rode the rest of the way in sad silence.

  As she entered her room a maid handed her a letter which she knew to befrom Douglass even before she saw the handwriting, and, without openingit, passed on into her room. "His message is too sacred for any other tosee," she said to herself, with instant apprehension of the bitterself-accusation with which he had written.

  The suffering expressed by the scrawling lines softened her heart, heranger died away, and only big tears of pity filled her glorious eyes."Poor boy! His heart is broken." And a desire to comfort him swelled herbosom with a passion almost maternal in its dignity. Now that his pridewas humbled, his strong figure bowed, his clear brain in turmoil, herwoman's tenderness sought him and embraced him without shame. Her ownstrength and resolution came back to her. "I will save you fromyourself," she said, softly.

  When she returned to the reception-room she found Westervelt and Hughand several of the leading actors (who took the evening's "frost" as areflection on themselves, an injury to their reputations), all inexcited clamor; but when they saw their star enter they fell silent, andWestervelt, sweating with excitement, turned to meet her.

  "You must not go on. It is not the money alone; it will ruin you withthe public. It is not for you to lecture the people. They will not haveit. Such a failure I have never seen. It was not a 'frost,' it was afrozen solid. We will announce _The Baroness_ for to-morrow. Thepressmen are waiting below. I shall tell them?" His voice rose inquestion.

  "Mr. Westervelt, this is my answer, and it is final. I will not take theplay off, and I shall expect you to work with your best energy to makeit a success. One night does not prove _Lillian_ a failure. The audienceto-night was not up to it, but that condemns the auditors, not the play.I do not wish to hear any more argument. Good-night."

  The astounded and crestfallen manager bowed his head and went out.

  Helen turned to the others. "I am tired of this discussion. One wouldthink the sky had fallen--from all this tumult. I am sorry for you, Mr.Royleston, but you are no deeper in the slough than Miss Collins and therest, and they are not complaining. Now let us sit down to our supperand talk of something else."

  Royleston excused himself and went away, and only Hugh, Miss Collins,Miss Carmichael, and the old mother drank with the star to celebrate thefirst performance of _Lillian's Duty_.

  "I have had a letter from Mr. Douglass," Helen said, softly, when theywere alone. "Poor fellow, he is absolutely prostrate in the dust, andasks me to throw him overboard as our Jonah. Put yourself in his place,Hugh, before speaking harshly of him."

  "I don't like a coward," he replied, contemptuously. "Why didn't he facethe music to-night? I never so much as set eyes on him after he came in.He must have been hiding in the gallery. He leads you into this crazyventure and then deserts you. A man who does that is a puppy."

  A spark of amusement lit Helen's eyes. "You might call him that when youmeet him next."

  Hugh, with a sudden remembrance of the playwright's powerful frame,replied, a little less truculently: "I'll call him something more fitthan that when I see him. But we won't see him again. He's out of therunning."

  Helen laid her cheek on her folded hands, and, with a smile whichcleared the air like a burst of sunshine, said, laughingly: "Hugh,you're a big, bad boy. You should be out on the ice skating instead ofmanaging a theatre. You have no more idea of George Douglass than a bearhas of a lion. This mood of depression is only a cloud; it will pass andyou will be glad to beg his pardon. My faith in him and in _Lillian'sDuty_ is unshaken. He has the artistic temperament, but
he has also thepertinacity of genius. Come, let's all go to bed and forget our hurts."

  And with this she rose and kissed her mother good-night.

  Hugh, still moody, replied, with sudden tenderness: "It hurt me to seethem go out on your last scene. I can't forgive Douglass for that."

  She patted his cheek. "Never mind that, Hughie. 'This, too, shall passaway.'"