Clipped Wings. Hughes Rupert
person of the stage-manager who dawdled along the aisle in the boredom of a stage-manager, who can never quite forget his position of authority and is never allowed to forget that his flock are proud individuals who feel that they know more than he does.
Sheila was impelled to appeal to Batterson on Eldon’s behalf, but she and the stage-manager had been in a state of armed truce since a clash that occurred at rehearsals. Batterson was not the original producer of the play, but he put out the road company and kept with it.
A reading of Sheila’s had always jarred him. He tried to change it. She tried to oblige him, but simply could not grasp what he was driving at. One of those peculiar struggles ensued in which two people are mutually astounded and outraged at their inability to explain or understand.
But if Mr. Batterson was hostile to Sheila, he was afraid of Mrs. Vining, both because he revered her and because she had known him when he was one of the most unpromising beginners that ever attempted the stage. He had never succeeded as an actor, which was no proof of his inability to tell others how to act, but always seemed so to them.
As he would have passed, Mrs. Vining, quite as if Sheila had prompted her, made a gesture of detention:
“Oh, Mr. Batterson, will you do me a great favor?” He bowed meekly, and she said, “Be a good boy and give Mr. Eldon here a chance to do some real work the first opportunity you get.”
Batterson sighed. “Good Lord! has he been pestering you, too?”
“He has been telling me of his struggles and his ambitions,” Mrs. Vining answered, with reproving dignity, “and I can see that he has ability. He is a gentleman, at least, and that is more than can be said of some of the people who are given some of the rôles.”
Batterson did not relish this. He had had one or two battles with Mrs. Vining over some of her stage business and had been withered by her comments on his knowledge of what really went on in real drawing-rooms. She had told him that they were as different as possible from stage drawing-rooms, and he had lacked information to answer. All he said now was:
“I’ve promised Eldon a dozen times that he should have a try at the first vacancy. But you know this old guard; they never surrender and they never die.”
“Except when they get a cue,” was Mrs. Vining’s drop of acid.
Batterson renewed his pledge and moved on, with a glance in which Eldon felt more threat than promise. But he thanked Mrs. Vining profusely and apologized to Sheila for taking so much of her time talking about himself. This made a good exit speech and he retired to his cell, carrying with him a load of new anxieties and ambitions.
Triply happy was Eldon now. He had been commended to the stage-manager and promised the first opportunity. He was getting somewhere. He had established himself in the good graces of the old duchess of the troupe. He had put his idol, Sheila, under obligations to him. He had ventured to let her know that he had joined the company on her account, and she had not rebuked him. This in itself was a thousand miles on his journey.
The meter of the train had hitherto been but a dry, monotonous clickety-click like the rattle bones of a dolorous negro minstrel. Now it was a jig, a wedding jig. The wheels and the rails fairly sang to him time after tune. The amiable hippety-hop fitted itself to any joyful thought that cantered through his heart.
By and by a town came sliding to the windows—Milton, a typical smallish city with a shabby station, a stupid hotel, no history, and no sights; it had reached the gawky age and stopped growing. But Eldon bade it welcome. He liked anybody and any place. He set out for the hotel, swinging his suit-case as if it were the harp of a troubadour. He walked with two or three other men of the company.
Old Jaffer had said: “The Mansion House is the only hotel. It’s three blocks to the right from the station and then two blocks to the left.” Jaffer knew the least bad hotel and just how to find it in hundreds of towns. He was a living gazetteer. “I’ve been to every burg in the country, I think,” he would say, “and I’ve never seen one yet that had anything to see.” The highest praise he could give a place was, “It’s a good hotel town.”
But they were all paradises to Eldon. He had fed so dismally and so sparsely, as a man out of a job, that even the mid-Westem coffee tasted good to him. Besides, to-day he had fed on honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise.
He was so jubilant that he offered to carry the hand-bag of Vincent Tuell, who labored along at his side, groaning. Eldon’s offer offended Tuell, who was just old enough to resent his age. It had already begun to lop dollars off his salary and to cut him out of the line of parts he had once commanded.
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