XII
Douglass now set to work on his second play with teeth clinched. "I willwin out in spite of them," he said. "They think I am beaten, but I amjust beginning to fight." As the days wore on his self-absorption becamemore and more marked. All his morning hours were spent at his writing,and when he came to Helen he was cold and listless, and talked ofnothing but _Enid_ and her troubles. Even as they rode in the park hismind seemed forever revolving lines and scenes. In the midst of herattempt to amuse him, to divert him, he returned to his theme. Heinvited her judgments and immediately forgot to listen, so morbidlyself-centred was he.
He made no further changes in the book of _Lillian's Duty_, but putaside Westervelt's request with a wave of his hand. "I leave all that toMiss Merival," he said. "I can't give it any thought now."
From one point of view Helen could not but admire this power ofconcentration, but when she perceived that her playwright's work hadfilled his mind to the exclusion of herself she began to suffer. Herpride resented his indifference, and she was saved from anger anddisgust only by the beauty of the writing he brought to her.
"The fury of the poet is on him. I must not complain," she thought, andyet a certain regret darkened her face. "All that was so sweet and finehas passed out of our intercourse," she sadly admitted to herself. "I amno longer even the great actress to him. Once he worshipped me--I feltit; now I am a commonplace friend. Is the fault in me? Am I one whomfamiliarity lessens in value?"
She did not permit herself to think that this was a lasting change, thathe had forever passed beyond the lover, and that she would never againfill his world with mystery and light and longing.
And yet this monstrous recession was the truth. In the stress of hiswork the glamour had utterly died out of Douglass's conception of Helen,just as the lurid light of her old-time advertising had faded from thebill-boards and from the window displays of Broadway. As cold, black,and gray instantaneous photographs had taken the place of the gorgeous,jewel-bedecked, elaborate lithographs of the old plays, so now histhought of her was without warmth.
Helen became aware, too, of an outside change. Her friends used this asa further warning.
"You are becoming commonplace to the public," one said, with a touch ofbitterness. "Your admirers no longer wonder. Go back to the glitter andthe glory."
"No," she replied. "I will regain my place, and with my own unaidedcharacter--and my lines," she added, with a return to her faith inDouglass.
And yet her meetings with him were now a species of torture. Herself-respect suffered with every glance of his eyes. He resembled a mansuffering from a fever. At times he talked with tiresome intensity aboutsome new situation, quoting his own characters, beating and hammering athis scenes until Helen closed her eyes for very weariness. Only at wideintervals did he return to some dim realization of his indebtedness toher. One day he gratified her by saying, with a note of tenderness inhis voice: "You are keeping the old play on; don't do it. Throw it away;it is a tract--a sermon." Then spoiled it all by bitterly adding, "Goback to your old successes."
"You used to dislike me in such roles," she answered, with pain andreproach in face and voice.
"It will only be for a little while," he replied, with a swift return tohis enthusiasm. "In two weeks I'll have the new part ready for you." Butthe sting of his advice remained long in the proud woman's heart.
He went no more to the theatre. "I can't bear to see you playing toempty seats," he declared, in explanation, but in reality he had ahorror of the scene of his defeat.
He came to lunch less often, and when they went driving or visiting thegalleries all the old-time, joyous companionship was gone. Notinfrequently, as they stood before some picture or sat at a concert, hewould whisper, "I have it; the act will end with _Enid_ doingso-and-so," and not infrequently he hurried away from her to catch somefugitive illumination which he feared to lose. He came to herreception-room only once of a Saturday afternoon, just before the playclosed.
"How is the house?" he asked, with indifference.
"Bad."
"Very bad?"
"Oh yes."
"I must work the harder," he replied, and sank into a sombre silence. Henever came inside again.
Helen was deeply wounded by this visit, and was sorely tempted to takehim at his word and end the production, but she did not. She could not,so deep had her interest in him become. Loyal to him she must remain,loyal to his work.
As his bank account grew perilously small, Douglass fell into deeps ofblack despair, wherein all imaginative power left him. At such times thelack of depth and significance in his work appalled him. "It ishopelessly poor and weak; it does not deserve to succeed. I've a mind totear it in rags." But he resisted this spirit, partly restrained by somehidden power traceable to the influence of Helen and partly by hisdesire to retrieve himself in the estimation of the world, but mainlybecause of some hidden force in his own brain, and set to work each timefiling and polishing with renewed care of word and phrase.
Slowly the second drama took on form and quality, developing a web ofpurpose not unlike that involved in a strain of solemn music, and at thelast the author's attention was directed towards eliminating minuteinharmonies or to the insertion of cacophony with design to make the_andante_ passages the more enthrallingly sweet. As the play nearedcompletion his absorption began to show results. He lost vigor, andHelen's eyes took anxious note of his weariness. "You are growing thinand white, Mr. Author," she said to him, with solicitude in her voice."You don't look like the rugged Western Scotchman you were when I foundyou. Am I to be your vampire?"
"On the contrary, I am to destroy you, to judge from the money you arelosing on my wretched play. I begin to fear I can never repay you, noteven with a great success. I have days when I doubt my power to write asuccessful drama."
"You work too hard. You must not ruin your health by undue haste. A weekor two will not make a killing difference with us. I don't mind playing_Lillian_ another month, if you need the time. It is good discipline,and, besides, I enjoy the part."
"That is because you are good and loyal to a poor writer," he answered,with a break to humble appreciation of her bounty and her bravery. "Bepatient with me," he pleaded. "_Enid_ will recoup you for all you havesuffered. It will win back all your funds. I have made it as near purepoetry as our harsh, definite life and our elliptical speech willpermit." And straightway his mind was filled with dreams of conquering,even while he faced his love, so strangely are courtship and ambitionmingled in the heart of man.
At last he began to exult, to boast, to call attention to the beauty ofthe lines spoken by _Enid_. "See how her simplicity and virginal charmare enhanced by the rugged, remorseless strength, and by theconscienceless greed of the men surrounding her, and yet she sees inthem something admirable. They are like soldiers to her. They are theheroes who tunnel mountains and bridge cataracts. When she looks fromher slender, white hands to their gross and powerful bodies she shudderswith a sort of fearsome admiration."
"Can all that appear in the lines?"
"Yes. In the lines and in the acting; it _must_ appear in your acting,"he added, with a note of admonition.
Her face clouded with pain. "He begins to doubt my ability to delineatehis work," she thought, and turned away in order that he might not knowhow deeply he had wounded her.
The Light of the Star: A Novel Page 12