“I think I can get on without,” said Hilary.
Louise laughed joyously. “Well, you wouldn’t understand what a triumph it was if I told you. I suppose, papa, you’ve no idea how Philistine you are. But you’re nothing to mamma!”
“I dare say,” said Hilary, sulkily. But she looked at him with eyes beaming with gayety, and he could see that she was happy, and he was glad at heart. “When does Maxwell expect to have his play done?” he relented so far as to ask.
“Why, it’s done now, and has been for a month, in one sense, and it isn’t done at all in another. He has to keep working it over, and he has to keep fighting Godolphin’s inspirations. He comes over from Manchester with a fresh lot every afternoon.”
“I dare say Maxwell will be able to hold his own,” said Hilary, but not so much proudly as dolefully.
She knew he was braving it out about the theatre, and that secretly he thought it undignified, and even disreputable, to be connected with it, or to be in such close relations with an actor as Maxwell seemed to be with this fellow who talked of taking his play. Hilary could go back very easily to the time in Boston when the theatres were not allowed open on Saturday night, lest they should profane the approaching Sabbath, and when you would no more have seen an actor in society than an elephant. He had not yet got used to meeting them, and he always felt his difference, though he considered himself a very liberal man, and was fond of the theatre — from the front.
He asked now, “What sort of chap is he, really?” meaning Godolphin, and Louise did her best to reassure him. She told him Godolphin was young and enthusiastic; and he had an ideal of the drama; and he believed in Brice; and he had been two seasons with Booth and Barrett; and now he had made his way on the Pacific Coast, and wanted a play that he could take the road with. She parroted those phrases, which made her father’s flesh creep, and she laughed when she saw it creeping, for sympathy; her own had crept first.
“Well,” he said, at last, “he won’t expect you and Maxwell to take the road too with it?”
“Oh no, we shall only be with him in New York. He won’t put the play on there first; they usually try a new play in the country.”
“Oh, do they?” said Hilary, with a sense that his daughter’s knowledge of the fact was disgraceful to her.
“Yes. Shall I tell you what they call that? Trying it on a dog!” she shrieked, and Hilary had to laugh, too. “It’s dreadful,” she went on. “Then, if it doesn’t kill the dog, Godolphin will bring it to New York, and put it on for a run — a week or a month — as long as his money holds out. If he believes in it, he’ll fight it.” Her father looked at her for explanation, and she said, with a gleeful perception of his suffering, “He’ll keep it on if he has to play to paper every night. That is, to free tickets.”
“Oh!” said Hilary. “And are you to be there the whole time with him?”
“Why, not necessarily. But Brice will have to be there for the rehearsals; and if we are going to live in New York—”
Hilary sighed. “I wish Maxwell was going on with his newspaper work; I might be of use to him in that line, if he were looking forward to an interest in a newspaper; but I couldn’t buy him a theatre, you know.”
Louise laughed. “He wouldn’t let you buy him anything, papa; Brice is awfully proud. Now, I’ll tell you, if you want to know, just how we expect to manage in New York; Brice and I have been talking it all over; and it’s all going to be done on that thousand dollars he saved up from his newspaper work, and we’re not going to touch a cent of my money till that is gone. Don’t you call that pretty business-like?”
“Very,” said Hilary, and he listened with apparent acquiescence to the details of a life which he divined that Maxwell had planned from his own simple experience. He did not like the notion of it for his daughter, but he could not help himself, and it was a consolation to see that she was in love with it.
She went back from it to the play itself, and told her father that now Maxwell had got the greatest love business for it that there ever was. She would not explain just what it was, she said, because her father would get a wrong notion of it if she did. “But I have a great mind to tell you something else,” she said, “if you think you can behave sensibly about it, papa. Do you suppose you can?”
Hilary said he would try, and she went on: “It’s part of the happiness of having got hold of the right kind of love business now, and I don’t know but it unconsciously suggested it to both of us, for we both thought of the right thing at the same time; but in the beginning you couldn’t have told it from a quarrel.” Her father started, and Louise began to laugh. “Yes, we had quite a little tiff, just like real married people, about my satirizing one of Godolphin’s inspirations to his face, and wounding his feelings. Brice is so cautious and so gingerly with him; and he was vexed with me, and told me he wished I wouldn’t do it; and that vexed me, and I said I wouldn’t have anything to do with his play after this; and I didn’t speak to him again till after supper. I said he was self-centred, and he is. He’s always thinking about his play and its chances; and I suppose I would rather have had him think more about me now and then. But I’ve discovered a way now, and I believe it will serve the same purpose. I’m going to enter so fully into his work that I shall be part of it; and when he is thinking of that he will be thinking of me without knowing it. Now, you wouldn’t say there was anything in that to cry about, would you? and yet you see I’m at it!” and with this she suddenly dropped her face on her father’s shoulder.
Hilary groaned in his despair of being able to imagine an injury sufficiently atrocious to inflict on Maxwell for having brought this grief upon his girl. At the sound of his groan, as if she perfectly interpreted his meaning in it, she broke from a sob into a laugh. “Will you never,” she said, dashing away the tears, “learn to let me cry, simply because I am a goose, papa, and a goose must weep without reason, because she feels like it? I won’t have you thinking that I am not the happiest person in the world; and I was, even when I was suffering so because I had to punish Brice for telling me I had done wrong. And if you think I’m not, I will never tell you anything more, for I see you can’t be trusted. Will you?”
He said no to her rather complicated question, and he was glad to believe that she was really as happy as she declared, for if he could not have believed it, he would have had to fume away an intolerable deal of exasperation. This always made him very hot and uncomfortable, and he shrank from it, but he would have done it if it had been necessary. As it was, he got back to his newspaper again with a sufficiently light heart, when Louise gave him a final kiss, and went indoors and put herself in authority for the day, and ordered what she liked for luncheon. The maids were delighted to have her, and she had a welcome from them all, which was full of worship for her as a bride whose honeymoon was not yet over.
She went away before her mother got home, and she made her father own, before she left him, that he had never had such a lovely day since he could remember. He wanted to drive over to Magnolia with her; but she accused him of wanting to go so that he could spy round a little, and satisfy himself of the misery of her married life; and then he would not insist.
IV.
Louise kept wondering, the whole way back, how Maxwell had managed the recasting of the love-business, and she wished she had stayed with him, so that he could have appealed to her at any moment on the points that must have come up all the time. She ought to have coached him more fully about it, and told him the woman’s side of such a situation, as he never could have imagined how many advances a woman can make with a man in such an affair and the man never find it out. She had not made any advances herself when she wished to get him back, but she had wanted to make them; and she knew he would not have noticed it if she had done the boldest sort of things to encourage him, to let him know that she liked him; he was so simple, in his straightforward egotism, beside her sinuous unselfishness.
She began to think how she was always contriving li
ttle sacrifices to his vanity, his modesty, and he was always accepting them with a serene ignorance of the fact that they were offered; and at this she strayed off on a little by-way in her revery, and thought how it was his mind, always, that charmed her; it was no ignoble fondness she felt; no poor, grovelling pleasure in his good looks, though she had always seen that in a refined sort he had a great deal of manly beauty. But she had held her soul aloof from all that, and could truly say that what she adored in him was the beauty of his talent, which he seemed no more conscious of than of his dreamy eyes, the scornful sweetness of his mouth, the purity of his forehead, his sensitive nostrils, his pretty, ineffective little chin. She had studied her own looks with reference to his, and was glad to own them in no wise comparable, though she knew she was more graceful, and she could not help seeing that she was a little taller; she kept this fact from herself as much as possible. Her features were not regular, like his, but she could perceive that they had charm in their irregularity; she could only wonder whether he thought that line going under her chin, and suggesting a future double chin in the little fold it made, was so very ugly. He seemed never to have thought of her looks, and if he cared for her, it was for some other reason, just as she cared for him. She did not know what the reason could be, but perhaps it was her sympathy, her appreciation, her cheerfulness; Louise believed that she had at least these small merits.
The thought of them brought her back to the play again, and to the love-business, and she wondered how she could have failed to tell him, when they were talking about what should bring the lovers together, after their prefatory quarrel, that simply willing it would do it. She knew that after she began to wish Maxwell back, she was in such a frenzy that she believed her volition brought him back; and now she really believed that you could hypnotize fate in some such way, and that your longings would fulfil themselves if they were intense enough. If he could not use that idea in this play, then he ought to use it in some other, something psychological, symbolistic, Maeterlinckish.
She was full of it when she dismounted from the barge at the hotel and hurried over to their cottage, and she was intolerably disappointed when she did not find him at work in the parlor.
“Brice! Brice!” she shouted, in the security of having the whole cottage to herself. She got no answer, and ran up to their room, overhead. He was not there, either, and now it seemed but too probable that he had profited by her absence to go out for a walk alone, after his writing, and fallen from the rocks, and been killed — he was so absent-minded. She offered a vow to Heaven that if he were restored to her she would never leave him again, even for a half-day, as long as either of them lived. In reward for this she saw him coming from the direction of the beach, where nothing worse could have befallen him than a chill from the water, if the wind was off shore and he had been taking a bath.
She had not put off her hat yet, and she went out to meet him; she could not kiss him at once, if she went to meet him, but she could wait till she got back to the cottage, and then kiss him. It would be a trial to wait, but it would be a trial to wait for him to come in, and he might stroll off somewhere else, unless she went to him. As they approached each other she studied his face for some sign of satisfaction with his morning’s work. It lighted up at sight of her, but there remained an inner dark in it to her eye.
“What is the matter?” she asked, as she put her hand through his arm, and hung forward upon it so that she could look up into his face. “How did you get on with the love-business?”
“Oh, I think I’ve got that all right,” he answered, with a certain reservation. “I’ve merely blocked it out, of course.”
“So that you can show it to Godolphin?”
“I guess so.”
“I see that you’re not sure of it. We must go over it before he comes. He hasn’t been here yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Why are you so quiet, Brice? Is anything the matter? You look tired.”
“I’m not particularly tired.”
“Then you are worried. What is it?”
“Oh, you would have to know, sooner or later.” He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her. “It came just after I had finished my morning’s work.”
She pulled it out of the envelope and read:
“Manchester-by-the-Sea, Friday.
“Dear Sir: I beg leave to relinquish any claim that you may feel I have established to the play you have in hand. As it now stands, I do not see my part in it, and I can imagine why you should be reluctant to make further changes in it, in order to meet my requirements.
“If I can be of any service to you in placing the piece, I shall be glad to have you make use of me.
“Yours truly,
“Launcelot Godolphin.”
“You blame me!” she said, after a blinding moment, in which the letter darkened before her eyes, and she tottered in her walk. She gave it back to him as she spoke.
“What a passion you have for blaming!” he answered, coldly. “If I fixed the blame on you it wouldn’t help.”
“No,” Louise meekly assented, and they walked along towards their cottage. They hardly spoke again before they reached it and went in. Then she asked, “Did you expect anything like this from the way he parted with you yesterday?”
Maxwell gave a bitter laugh. “From the way we parted yesterday I was expecting him early this afternoon, with the world in the palm of his hand, to lay it at my feet. He all but fell upon my neck when he left me. I suppose his not actually doing it was an actor’s intimation that we were to see each other no more.”
“I wish you had nothing to do with actors!” said Louise.
“They appear to have nothing to do with me,” said Maxwell. “It comes to the same thing.”
They reached the cottage, and sat down in the little parlor where she had left him so hopefully at work in the morning, where they had talked his play over so jubilantly the night before.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, after an abysmal interval.
“Nothing. What is there to do?”
“You have a right to an explanation; you ought to demand it.”
“I don’t need any explanation. The case is perfectly clear. Godolphin doesn’t want my play. That is all.”
“Oh, Brice!” she lamented. “I am so dreadfully sorry, and I know it was my fault. Why don’t you let me write to him, and explain—”
Maxwell shook his head. “He doesn’t want any explanation. He doesn’t want the play, even. We must make up our minds to that, and let him go. Now we can try it with your managers.”
Louise felt keenly the unkindness of his calling them her managers, but she was glad to have him unkind to her; deep within her Unitarianism she had the Puritan joy in suffering for a sin; her treatment of Godolphin’s suggestion of a skirt-dance, while very righteous in itself, was a sin against her husband’s interest, and she would rather he were unkind to her than not. The sooner she was punished for it and done with it, the better; in her unscientific conception of life, the consequences of a sin ended with its punishment. If Maxwell had upbraided her with the bitterness she merited, it would have been to her as if it were all right again with Godolphin. His failure to do so left the injury unrepaired, and she would have to do something. “I suppose you don’t care to let me see what you’ve written to-day?”
“No, not now,” said Maxwell, in a tone that said, “I haven’t the heart for it.”
They sat awhile without speaking, and then she ventured, “Brice, I have an idea, but I don’t know what you will think of it. Why not take Godolphin’s letter on the face of it, and say that you are very sorry he must give up the play, and that you will be greatly obliged to him if he can suggest some other actor? That would be frank, at least.”
Maxwell broke into a laugh that had some joy in it. “Do you think so? It isn’t my idea of frankness exactly.”
“No, of course not. You always say what you mean, and you don’t change. That is what is
so beautiful in you. You can’t understand a nature that is one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow.”
“Oh, I think I can,” said Maxwell, with a satirical glance.
“Brice!” she softly murmured; and then she said, “Well, I don’t care. He is just like a woman.”
“You didn’t like my saying so last night.”
“That was a different thing. At any rate, it’s I that say so now, and I want you to write that to him. It will bring him back flying. Will you?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Maxwell; “I’m not sure that I want Godolphin back, or not at once. It’s a great relief to be rid of him, in a certain way, though a manager might be worse slavery. Still, I think I would like to try a manager. I have never shown this play to one, and I know the Odeon people in Boston, and, perhaps—”
“You are saying that to comfort me.”
“I wouldn’t comfort you for worlds, my dear. I am saying this to distress you. But since I have worked that love-business over, it seems to me much less a one-part play, and if I could get a manager to take a fancy to it I could have my own way with it much better; at least, he wouldn’t want me to take all the good things out of the other characters’ mouths and stuff them into Haxard’s.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I really thought so before I got Godolphin’s letter. That made him seem the one and only man for me.”
“Yes,” Louise assented, with a sad intelligence.
Maxwell seemed to have got some strength from confronting his calamity. At any rate, he said, almost cheerfully, “I’ll read you what I wrote this morning,” and she had to let him, though she felt that it was taking her at a moment when her wish to console him was so great that she would not be able to criticise him. But she found that he had done it so well there was no need of criticism.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 622