"Fraternally,
"J. A. Williamson."
By the same mail there had come a second letter from the theatre at the Soldiers' Home. It was written with woful shakiness showing in every spidery line, and with more than a spider's venom in its words. The envelope held, too, a folded ten-dollar note, which was a return for the like amount paid out by Thrall to a certain Mrs. Hoskins, who in her character of suspicious landlady had basely broken her promise "to wait a week," and had impudently presented her claim against Roberts to his manager—which was certainly an injurious proceeding and treacherous as well. Therefore the letter opened with some remarks about landladies, individual and in bulk, and though his style was a trifle florid and his spirit somewhat bitter, he nevertheless showed a thorough and discriminating knowledge of his subject, particularly where he pointed out the difference between a "she-shylock" and a harpy (Mrs. Hoskins was a harpy), the shylock being, he declared, ever satisfied with her single pound of flesh, while the harpy, beginning with your eyes, picks your every bone bare, and then tries to reach through your vitals.
Having eased his bosom of much perilous stuff, he went on:
"Business is very good. The company is far better than you'd expect to see at the salaries paid, but every one's so devilish glad to get something to do in the summer that they are willing to work on half pay. Old Williamson's a first-class stage-manager—queer thing he never gets into New York, and he's taking so much pains with Miss Lawton, or Miss Sylvia Latimer, as you've got her billed here, that everyone is talking and wondering about it. But there's no mystery to me in this matter any longer. I went to her door yesterday to hand in a few pounds of mail from her people—they must all write every day of the week to her. She was not in the room, but the door was ajar, and I entered and placed the letters on the table. As I did so the wind fluttered open the leaves of a play-book—it was 'Romeo and Juliet,' and the lines of Juliet were all pencil-marked for study. So that's the game, is it? That's why the girl is hidden under a stage-name, while she is learning her acting a-b-abs out here in the West? That's why I suddenly become of service to you? I am to guard this fruit from wicked little boys who may look over the orchard wall and spy it out? Oh, you think you are immeasurably deep, don't you? Well, you're not! But you're the damndest, luckiest beggar on earth! And you're smart—oh, yes, you're smart, where number one comes in!
"What a card you have found! and how cleverly you will play it, and gather in the stakes—for yourself! Beautiful, talented, poor, and good—now! Don't give me your sneer, please! Even a drunkard knows an honest woman when he comes up with one. And this girl is a wonder! She is innocent, though she's not ignorant. Theoretically she knows of sin's existence—her stories, poems, and plays have all made her so monstrous wise; but, practically, she is as much of a child as was that other girl who came to you to learn to be an actress. Damn you! Oh, yes, I know this girl has gifts my sister Bess never had, but—purity is the subject now, and Sybil Lawton looks at you with precisely the same innocent, dauntless eyes that made my sister irresistible. Poor little maid! If it were not that she and the Missus, and even this last, your pet devil of a divorcée, were all such fair women, I'd think your sending me on here to guard this girl would have made me suspicious of another sort of game! See here, Thrall, don't you come any of your dam'd drooping-eyelid and lowered-voice effect over this girl! Leave her alone, if you know when you are well off. I know I've been your dog, your cur, but curs snap sometimes, and a silence, however long, may be broken. No, we don't want any Bessie in this! Stewart Thrall, manager—even Stewart Thrall, Romeo to the loveliest Juliet God ever made! But, don't you see how like she is to your victim, little Bessie, save in color of her hair and eyes? How like! For God's sake let that likeness protect— I—oh, my head's all gone to pieces! No, I'm not drunk! I'm queer for want of drink—but I dare not touch it while I have her to care for. I think if I met her eyes when I was 'off' I'd curl up like a worm that's stepped on!
"She—so gentle and so kind! And yet Herod could not touch her for pride! There, I've had a smoke; I'm steadier now. Yes, your find is a great one. When once she conquers her trouble over her exits she will be quite a decent actress. Her voice is clear and carries well. Hers is a genuine stage beauty too, lighting up radiantly. To your question—yes, she is easily coached. I've got rather a long part to break in, so I guess I'll go at it, after I mail this and get a bite. Watching others' preserves is hungry work. Tout à vous!—which I wish I wasn't!
"Jim."
"Confound him!" said Thrall, "I don't know when he is worst—crazy drunk or crazy sober! Why must he remind me of that resemblance? For, deuce take him, it does exist! It's not his drunken fancy, as I wish it were!"
He shivered in the warmth as he recalled the fair, childish face that used to beam with adoration upon him, unconscious avowal shining in each blue, honest eye. Shallow and inconsequent he had thought the little creature, and yet she had snapped the thread of life with her own hand rather than wait for its slow fraying under abandonment and separation from him. And Jim, by his silence and his craft combined, had averted an awful scandal.
He wiped his forehead and re-read the letter. Suddenly his face flushed. "The drivelling idiot!" he muttered. "I believe in my soul he's in love with this little Crown Princess, who yearns to be a Queen! If he dares to let her know of it I'll wring his neck! He's mighty brave on paper—threatening me, who has kept him out of the poor-house these five years! And my young affections are supposed to be strictly confined to 'the fair Ophelia' type, eh? I am to be blind to the fact that there's more beauty in this dark, lowering young face, more temptation in the upward curl of her swift smile, than could be found in the pink-and-white redundancy of the most perfect Rubens type alive! Oh, I am a fool to notice his rambling, maudlin nonsense! Let me keep to the business in hand. It's very evident that this girl has something in her, when tough old Williamson finds her promising and can see her beauty too. And this crazy wretch, Jim, who knows the requirements of a good actress as well as I do, says she's quite a decent actress now. All of which means that if she is let alone she will probably succeed only after years of struggle and hard work and many disappointments. Yet that is the natural, normal way to success. Perhaps I'd better leave her alone [surely, if Stewart Thrall ever had a guardian angel, its friendly whisper was in his ear at that moment]—leave her to work out her own artistic salvation? I—I could give her a start—I could use my influence to secure a good position somewhere for her first season. That would be the wise thing, Stewart, my boy! For there's no denying the girl's getting too strong a hold on my imagination. Yet what a furore it would create to spring this unknown, unheard-of beauty upon the public! What a vision she would be in the white satin lace and pearls of Juliet, with her young, dark, swift-changing face; and, as for acting the part, why—" A slow smile crept across his lips, unconsciously he drooped his heavily fringed eyelids, in the very way that Jim Roberts had cursed, and murmured: "I could teach her—I could teach her. This letter says she is easily coached. I could open the season with this new French play, holding 'The Duke's Motto' ready for revival in case the new play doesn't strike hard enough; and meantime I could either place my little Princess with old Mrs. Mordaunt for training, or—coach her myself, work the press to arouse curiosity, and by February at furthest spring my surprise—play my great card! The production will cost—but I'll gather it in again from the houses she will draw, if I bring her out as a star. I suppose I'd be wiser to drop this plan—but, oh, by Jove, I can't! I promised, fairly and squarely promised, she should have her crown. Poor little girl! I'd like to make the path to success easier to her than most people find it. Then, again, some cheap tuppenny-ha'penny actor may gather her up and marry her, out of hand, and so spoil all her future. Oh, devil take it! I'll toss a coin. No, I won't, either; that doesn't seem decent! But I'll wait for the next letter, and if she has learned by that time to make a correct exit, I'll bring her back here at the end of old Williamson's summer season, and begin coaching her on the quiet for the great coup! If she has not yet succeeded, I leave her to her own efforts. There, fate has it to manage now! I stand aside and wait!"