Tuell had never reached high—but he had always hoped high. Now he had closed the books of hope. He was on the down grade. His career had not been a peak, but a foot-hill, and he was on the wrong side of that. He received Eldon’s proffer as an accusation of years. He answered with a bitter negative, “No, thank you, damn you!”
Eldon apologized with a laugh. He felt as hilariously contented and sportive as a young pup whom no rebuff can offend. As he strode along he glanced back and saw that Sheila and Mrs. Vining were footing it, too, and carrying such luggage as Pennock could not accommodate. Eldon was amazed. He had supposed that they would ride. He dropped back to Sheila’s elbow and pleaded:
“Won’t you let me take a cab and ride you to the hotel?”
Sheila thanked him No, and Mrs. Vining finished him off:
“Young man, if you’re going to be an actor you must learn to practise small economies—especially in small towns where you gain nothing by extravagance. You never know how short your season may be. The actor who wastes money on cabs in the winter will be borrowing car fare in the summer.”
Eldon accepted the repulse as if it were a bouquet. “I see; but at least you must let me carry your suit-cases.”
Mrs. Vining threw him much the same answer as Tuell: “I’m not so old as I look, and I travel light.”
He turned to Sheila, whose big carry-all was so heavy that it dragged one shoulder down. She looked like the picture of somebody or other carrying a bucket from the well—or was it from a cow? He put out his hand. She turned aside to dodge him. He followed her closely and finally wrested the suit-case from her. Seeing his success, Mrs. Vining yielded him hers also. He let Pennock trudge with hers. And so they walked to the hotel and marched up to the desk.
Jaffer and Tuell had already registered. Eldon thought they might at least have waited till the ladies had had first choice. He was surprised to hear Sheila and Mrs. Vining haggling over the prices of lodging and choosing rooms of moderate cost.
He had no chance to speak to them at the performance or after it, but the next morning he hung about the lobby till train-time. He pretended much surprise at seeing Sheila—as if he had not been waiting for her! He was a bad actor. Again he secured the carry-all in spite of her protests. If he had known more he would have seen that she gave up to avoid a battle. But she dropped back with Pennock and left him to walk with Mrs. Vining, who did not hesitate to assail him with her usual directness:
“Young man, you’re very nice and you mean very well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. Have you noticed that when the company gets into a train or a public dining-room, everybody settles as far away as possible from everybody else?”
Eldon had noticed it. It had shocked him. Mrs. Vining went on:
“And no doubt you’ve seen a big, husky actor let a poor, tired actress drag her own baggage to a far-off hotel.”
Eldon had noted that, too, with deep regret. He was astounded when Mrs. Vining said:
“Well, that actor is showing that actress the finest courtesy he can. When men and women are traveling this way on business, the man who is attentive to a woman is doing her a very dubious kindness, unless they’re married or expect to be.”
“Why?” said Eldon. “Can’t he pay her ordinary human courtesy?”
“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Vining, “or he’ll start the other members of the company and the gaping crowd of outsiders to whispering: ‘Oh, he’s carrying her valise now! It’s a sketch!’ ”
“A ‘sketch’?” Eldon murmured.
“Yes, a—an alliance, an affair. A theatrical troupe is like a little village on wheels. Everybody gossips. Everybody imagines—builds a big play out of a little scenario. And so the actor who is a true gentleman has to keep forgetting that he is one. It’s a penalty we women must pay for earning our livings. You see now, don’t you, Mr. Eldon?”
He bowed and blushed to realize that it was all meant as a rebuke to his forwardness. He had been treated with consideration, and had immediately proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. He had no right to carry Sheila’s burdens, and his insistence had been only an embarrassment to her. He had behaved like a greedy porter at a railroad station to whom one surrenders with wrath in order to silence his demands.
He had not progressed so far as he thought. His train had been ordered to back up. When he had placed Sheila’s baggage and Mrs. Vining’s in the seats they chose in the day coach, he declined Sheila’s invitation to sit down, and sulked in the smoking-car.
The towns that followed Milton were as stupid as Jaffer had said they were. The people who lived there seemed to love them, or at least they did not leave them, but they were dry oases for the lonely traveler. Few of the towns had even a statue, and most of those that had statues would have been the richer for their absence.
Of one thing Eldon made sure—that he would never inflict another of his compromising politenesses on Miss Sheila Kemble. He avoided her so ostentatiously that the other members of the company noticed it. Those who had instantly said when he carried her valise, “Aha! he is carrying her valise now!” were presently saying, “Oh, he’s not carrying her valise now!”
CHAPTER X
Gradually the company worked a zigzag passage to Chicago, where it was booked for an indefinite stay. If the “business” were good, it would be announced that, “owing to the unprecedented success, it has been found necessary to extend the run originally contemplated.” If the business were not so good, it would be announced that, “owing to previous bookings, it would unfortunately be impossible to extend the run beyond the next two weeks.”
Jaffer was saying as they rolled in: “There’s no telling in advance what Chicago’s going to do to us. New York stood for this rotten show for a whole season; Chicago may be too wise for us. I hope so. It’s a ghastly town. The Lake winds are death to a delicate throat. I always lose my voice control in Chicago.”
With Jaffer the success he was in was always a proof of the stupidity of the public. In his unending reminiscences, which he ran serially in the smoking-room like another Arabian Nights, the various failures he had met were variously described. Those in which he had had a good part were “over the heads of the swine”; those in which he had shone dimly were “absolutely the worst plays ever concocted, my boy—hopeless from the start. How even a manager could fail to see it in the script I can’t for the life of me imagine.”
Old Jim Crumb said: “Chicago is a far better judge of a play than New York is. Chicago’s got a mind of her own. She’s the real metropolis. The critics have got a heart; they appreciate honest effort. If they don’t like you they say so fairly, without any of the brutality of New York.” Crumb’s last appearance in Chicago had been in a highly successful play.
Tuell stopped groaning long enough to growl: “Don’t you believe it! Chicago’s jealous of New York, and the critics have got their axes out for anything that bears the New York stamp. If they don’t like you, they lynch you—that’s all, they just lynch you.” Tuell’s last appearance there had been with a failure.
Eldon
