The Light of the Star: A Novel

by Hamlin Garland

  XVII

  This letter came to Helen with her coffee, and the reading of it blottedout the glory of the morning, filling her eyes with smarting tears. Itput a sudden ache into her heart, a fierce resentment. At the moment hisassumed humbleness, his self-derision, his confession of failureirritated her.

  "I don't want you to bend and bow," she thought, as if speaking to him."I'd rather you were fierce and hard, as you were last night." She readon to the end, so deeply moved that she could scarcely see the lines.Her resentment melted away and a pity, profound and almost maternal,filled her heart. "Poor boy! What could Hugh have said to him! I willknow. It has been a bitter experience for him. And is this the end ofour good days?"

  With this internal question a sense of vital loss took hold upon her.For the first time in her life the future seemed desolate and her pastfutile. Back upon her a throng of memories came rushing--memories of thehigh and splendid moments they had spent together. First of all sheremembered him as the cold, stern, handsome stranger of that firstnight--that night when she learned that his coldness was assumed, hissternness a mask. She realized once again that at this first meeting hehad won her by his voice, by his hand-clasp, by the swiftness and fervorof his speech; he had dominated her, swept her from her feet.

  And now this was the end of all their plans, their dreams of conquest.There could be no doubt of his meaning in this letter: he had cuthimself off from her, perversely, bitterly, in despair and deephumiliation. She did not doubt his ability to keep his word. There wassomething inexorable in him. She had felt it before--a sort of blind,self-torturing obstinacy which would keep him to his vow though he bledfor every letter.

  And yet she wrote again, patiently, sweetly, asking him to come to her."I don't know what Hugh said to you--no matter, forgive him. We were allat high tension last night. I know you didn't intend to hurt me, and Ihave put it all away. I will forget your reproach, but I cannot have yougo out of my life in this way. It is too cruel, too hopeless. Come to meagain, your good, strong, buoyant self, and let us plan for the future."

  This message, so high, so divinely forgiving, came back to her unopened,with a line from the clerk on the back--"Mr. Douglass left the city thisevening. No address."

  This laconic message struck her like a blow. It was as if Douglasshimself had refused her outstretched hand. Her nerves, tense andquivering, gave way. Her resentment flamed up again.

  "Very well." She tore the note in small pieces, slowly, with painfulprecision, as if by so doing she were tearing and blowing away the greatpassion which had grown up in her heart. "I was mistaken in you. You areunworthy of my confidence. After all, you are only a weak, egotistical'genius'--morbid, selfish. Hugh is right. You have proved my evilgenius. You skulked the night of your first play. You alternatelyignored and made use of me--as you pleased--and after all I had done foryou you flouted me in the face of my company." She flung the fragmentsof the note into the fire. "There are your words--all counting fornothing."

  And she rose and walked out to her brother and her manager, determinedthat no sign of her suffering and despair should be written upon herface.

  The day dragged wearily forward, and when Westervelt came in with asorrowful tale of diminishing demand for seats she gave her consent to areturn to _Baroness Telka_ on the following Monday morning.

  The manager was jubilant. "Now we will see a theatre once more. I toughtI vas running a church or a school. Now we will see carriages at thedoor again and some dress-suits pefore the orchestra. Eh, Hugh?"

  "I'm glad to see you come to your senses," said Hugh, ignoringWestervelt. "That chap had us all--"

  She stopped him. "Not a word of that. Mr. Douglass was right and hisplays are right, but the public is not yet risen to such work. I admirehis work just as much now as ever. I am only doubting the public. Ifthere is no sign of increasing interest on Saturday we will take _Enid_off. That is all I will say now."

  It seemed a pitiful, a monstrous thing. Hugh made no further protest,but that his queenly sister, after walking untouched through swarms ofrich and talented suitors, should fall a victim to a poor and unknownarchitect, who was a failure at his own business as well as aplaywright.

  Mrs. MacDavitt, who stood quite in awe of her daughter, and who fearedthe sudden, hot temper of her son, passed through some trying hours asthe days went by. Helen was plainly suffering, and the mother cautionedthe son to speak gently. "I fear she prized him highly--the youngDouglass," she said, "and, I confess, I had a kin' o' liking for thelad. He was so keen and resolved."

  "He was keen to 'do' us, mother, and when he found he couldn't he pulledhis freight. He could write, I'll admit that, but he wouldn't write whatpeople wanted to hear. He was too badly stuck on his own 'genius.'"

  Helen went to her task at the theatre without heart, though shepretended to a greater enthusiasm than ever. But each time she enteredupon the second act of the play a mysterious and solacing pleasure cameto her. She enjoyed the words with which _Enid_ questions the life ofher richest and most powerful suitor. The mingled shrewdness,simplicity, and sweetness of this scene always filled her with a newsense of Douglass's power of divination. Indeed, she closed the playeach night with a sense of being more deeply indebted to him as well asa feeling of having been near him. Once she saw a face strangely likehis in the upper gallery, and the blood tingled round her heart, and sheplayed the remainder of the act with mind distraught. "Can it bepossible that he is still in the city?" she asked herself.