When she came to the theatre at night Westervelt was waiting at the door.

"Well?" he asked, anxiously. "What do you think of it?"

"I have sent for the author," she answered, coldly. "He will meet me to-morrow at eleven. Come to the hotel and I will introduce him to you."

"Splendid! splendid!" exclaimed the manager. "You found it suited to you! A great part, eh?"

"I like it better than _The Baroness_," she replied, and left him broad-faced with joy.

"She is coming sensible again," he chuckled. "Now that that crank is out of the way we shall see her as she was--triumphant."

Again the audience responded to every line she spoke, and as she played something rea.s.suring came up to her from the faces below. The house was perceptibly less empty, but the comfort arose from something more intangible than an increase of filled chairs. "I believe the tide has turned," she thought, exultantly, but dared not say so to Hugh.

That night she sent a note to Dougla.s.s, and the words of her message filled him with mingled feelings of exultation and bitterness:

"You have won! Westervelt and Hugh are crazy to meet the author of _Alessandra_. They see a great success for you, for me, for all of us.

Westervelt is ready to pour out his money to stage the thing gorgeously.

Come to-morrow to meet them. Come proudly. You will find them both ready to take your hand--eager to acknowledge that they have misjudged you. We have both made a fight for good work and failed. No one can blame us if we yield to necessity."

The thought of once more meeting her, of facing her managers with confident gaze on equal terms, made Dougla.s.s tremble with excitement. He dressed with care, attempting as best he could to put away all the dust and odors of his miserable tenement, and went forth looking much like the old-time, self-confident youth who faced down the clerk. His mind ran over every word in Helen's note a dozen times, extracting each time new and hidden meanings.

"If it is the great success they think it, my fortune is made." His spirits began to overleap all bounds. "It will enable me to meet her as an equal--not in worth," he acknowledged--"she is so much finer and n.o.bler than any man that ever lived--but I will at least be something more than a tramp kennelled in a musty hole." His mind took another flight. "I can go home with pride also. Oh, success is a sovereign thing. Think of Hugh and Westervelt waiting to welcome me--and Helen!"

When he thought of her his confident air failed him, his face flushed, his hands felt numb. She shone now like a far-off violet star. She had recovered her aloofness, her allurement in his mind, and it was difficult for him to realize that he had once known her intimately and that he had treated her inconsiderately. "I must have been mad," he exclaimed. It seemed months since he had looked into her face.

The clerk he dreaded to meet was off duty, and as the elevator boy knew him he did not approach the desk, but went at once to Helen's apartments.

She did not meet him at the door as he had foolishly expected. Delia, the maid, greeted him with a smile, and led him back to the reception-room and left him alone.

He heard Helen's voice, the rustle of her dress, and then she stood before him. As he looked into her face and read love and pity in her eyes he lost all fear, all doubt, and caught her hand in both of his, unable to speak a word in his defence--unable even to tell her of his grat.i.tude and love.

She recovered herself first, and, drawing back, looked at him searchingly. "You poor fellow, you've been working like mad. You are ill!"

"No, I am not ill--only tired. I have had only one thought, one aim since I saw you last, that was to write something to restore you to your old place----"

"I do not want to be restored. Now listen, Lord Dougla.s.s. If I do _Alessandra_, it is because we both need the money and the prestige; but I do not despair, and you must not. Please let me manage this whole affair; will you?"

"I am your slave."

"Don't say such things. I don't want you to be humble. I want you to be as brave, as proud as before."

She said this in such a tone that he rose to it. His face reset in lines of resolution. "I will not be humble with any other human being but you.

I worship you."

She stood for a moment looking at him fixedly, a smile of pride and tender dream on her lips, then said, "You must not say such things to me--not now." The bell rang. "Here comes your new-found admirers," she exclaimed, gleefully. "Now, you sit here, a little in the shadow, and I will bring them in."

Dougla.s.s heard Hugh ask, eagerly, "Is he here?"

"Yes, he is waiting for you." A moment later she re-entered, followed closely by Westervelt. "Herr Westervelt, let me introduce Mr. George Dougla.s.s, author of _Alessandra_, _Lillian's Duty_, and _Enid's Choice_."

For an instant Westervelt's face was a confused, lumpy ma.s.s of amazement and resentment; then he capitulated, quick to know on which side his bread was b.u.t.tered, and, flinging out a fat hand, he roared:

"Very good joke. Ha! ha! You have fooled me completely. Mr. Dougla.s.s, I congratulate you. You have now given Helen Merival the best part she has ever had. You found we were right, eh?"

Dougla.s.s remained a little stiff. "Yes, for the present we'll say you are right; but the time is coming--"

Hugh came forward with less of enthusiasm, but his wall of reserve was melting. "I'm mighty glad to know that you wrote _Alessandra_, Dougla.s.s.

It is worthy of Sardou, and it will win back every dollar we've lost in the other plays."

"That's what I wrote it for," said Dougla.s.s, sombrely.

Westervelt had no further scruples--no reservations. "Well, now, as to terms and date of production. Let's get to business."

Helen interposed. "No more of that for to-day. Mr. Dougla.s.s is tired and needs recreation. Leave business till to-morrow. Come, let us go to mother; she is anxious to see you--and you are to breakfast with us in the good old spirit."

It was sweet to sit with them again on the old footing--to be released from his load of guilty responsibility. To face the shining table, the dear old mother--and Helen! Something indefinably domestic and tender came from her hesitating speech and shone in her liquid, beaming eyes.

The room swam in vivid sunshine, and seemed thus to typify the toiler's escape from poverty and defeat.

"Don't expect me to talk," he said, slowly, strangely. "I'm too dazed, too happy to think clearly. I can't believe it. I have lived two months in a horrible nightmare; but now that the business men, the practical ones, say you are to be saved by me, I must believe it. I would be perfectly happy if only I had won the success on my own lines without compromise."

"Put that aside," she commanded, softly. "The fuller success will come.

We have that to work towards."

XIX

Helen insisted that her playwright should go back to the West for a month's rest.

"I do not need rest, I need you," he answered, recklessly. "It fills me with content merely to see you."

"Nevertheless, you must go. We don't need you here. And, besides, you interfere with my plans."

"Is that true?" His eyes searched deep as he questioned.

"I am speaking as the actress to the playwright." She pointed tragically to the door. "Go! Your poor old, lonely mother awaits you."

"There are six in the family; she's my stepmother, and we don't get on smoothly."

"Your father is waiting to congratulate you."

"On the contrary. He thinks actresses and playwrights akin to 'popery.'"

She laughed. "Well, then, go on my account--on your account. You are tired, and so am I--"