第87章

He gave an imitation of her--a slight caricature.

A titter ran through the chorus.He sternly rebuked them and requested her to try again.Her fourth attempt was her worst.He shook his head in gentle remonstrance.``Not quite right yet,'' said he regretfully.``But we'll go on.''

Not far, however.He stopped her again.Again the courteous, kindly criticism.And so on, through the entire act.By the end of it, Mildred's nerves were unstrung.She saw the whole game, and realized how helpless she was.Before the end of that rehearsal, Mildred had slipped back from promising professional into clumsy amateur, tolerable only because of the beautiful freshness of her voice--and it was a question whether voice alone would save her.Yet no one but Mildred herself suspected that Ransdell had done it, had revenged himself, had served notice on her that since she felt strong enough to stand alone she was to have every opportunity to do so.He had said nothing disagree-able; on the contrary, he had been most courteous, most forbearing.

In the third act she was worse than in the second.

At the end of the rehearsal the others, theretofore flattering and encouraging, turned away to talk among themselves and avoided her.Ransdell, about to leave, said:

``Don't look so down-hearted, Miss Gower.You'll be all right to-morrow.An off day's nothing.''

He said it loudly enough for the others to hear.

Mildred's face grew red with white streaks across it, like the prints of a lash.The subtlest feature of his malevolence had been that, whereas on other days he had taken her aside to criticize her, on this day he had spoken out--gently, deprecatingly, but frankly--before the whole company.Never had Mildred Gower been so sad and so blue as she was that day and that night.She came to the rehearsal the following day with a sore throat.She sang, but her voice cracked on the high notes.It was a painful exhibition.Her fellow principals, who had been rather glad of her set-back the day before, were full of pity and sympathy.They did not express it; they were too kind for that.But their looks, their drawing away from her--Mildred could have borne sneers and jeers better.And Ransdell was SO forbearing, SO gentle.

Her voice got better, got worse.Her acting remained mediocre to bad.At the fifth rehearsal after the break with the stage-director, Mildred saw Crossley seated far back in the dusk of the empty theater.It was his first appearance at rehearsals since the middle of the first week.As soon as he had satisfied himself that all was going well, he had given his attention to other matters where things were not going well.Mildred knew why he was there--and she acted and sang atrociously.

Ransdell aggravated her nervousness by ostentatiously trying to help her, by making seemingly adroit attempts to cover her mistakes--attempts apparently thwarted and exposed only because she was hopelessly bad.

In the pause between the second and third acts Ransdell went down and sat with Crossley, and they engaged in earnest conversation.The while, the members of the company wandered restlessly about the stage, making feeble attempts to lift the gloom with affected cheerfulness.

Ransdell returned to the stage, went up to Mildred, who was sitting idly turning the leaves of a part-book.

``Miss Gower,'' said he, and never had his voice been so friendly as in these regretful accents, ``don't try to go on to-day.You're evidently not yourself.Go home and rest for a few days.We'll get along with your understudy, Miss Esmond.When Mr.Crossley wants to put you in again, he'll send for you.You mustn't be discouraged.I know how beginners take these things to heart.Don't fret about it.You can't fail to succeed.''

Mildred rose and, how she never knew, crossed the stage.She stumbled into the flats, fumbled her way to the passageway, to her dressing-room.She felt that she must escape from that theater quickly, or she would give way to some sort of wild attack of nerves.She fairly ran through the streets to Mrs.Belloc's, shut herself in her room.But instead of the relief of a storm of tears, there came a black, hideous depression.Hour after hour she sat, almost without motion.The afternoon waned; the early darkness came.Still she did not move--could not move.At eight o'clock Mrs.Belloc knocked.Mildred did not answer.Her door opened --she had forgotten to lock it.In came Mrs.Belloc.

``Isn't that you, sitting by the window?'' she said.

``Yes,'' replied Mildred.

``I recognized the outline of your hat.Besides, who else could it be but you? I've saved some dinner for you.I thought you were still out.''

Mildred did not answer.

``What's the matter?'' said Agnes? ``Ill? bad news?''

``I've lost my position,'' said Mildred.

A pause.Then Mrs.Belloc felt her way across the room until she was touching the girl.``Tell me about it, dear,'' said she.

In a monotonous, lifeless way Mildred told the story.

It was some time after she finished when Agnes said:

``That's bad--bad, but it might be worse.You must go to see the manager, Crossley.''

``Why?'' said Mildred.

``Tell him what you told me.''

Mildred's silence was dissent.

``It can't do any harm,'' urged Agnes.

``It can't do any good,'' replied Mildred.

``That isn't the way to look at it.''

A long pause.Then Mildred said: ``If I got a place somewhere else, I'd meet the same thing in another form.''

``You've got to risk that.''

``Besides, I'd never have had a chance of succeeding if Mr.Ransdell hadn't taught me and stood behind me.''

It was many minutes before Agnes Belloc said in a hesitating, restrained voice: ``They say that success --any kind of success--has its price, and that one has to be ready to pay that price or fail.''

Again the profound silence.Into it gradually penetrated the soft, insistent sound of the distant roar of New York--a cruel, clamorous, devouring sound like a demand for that price of success.Said Agnes timidly:

``Why not go to see Mr.Ransdell.''