In the last act Sheila poured out the confession of her sins to Eldon. This was a bit that Bret had not seen, and it poured vinegar into his wounds to hear his own wife announcing to a thousand people how she had been duped and deceived by a false marriage to a man who had never understood her. That was bad enough, but to have Eldon play the saint and forgive her—Bret gripped the chair arms in a frenzy.
Eldon offered her the shelter of his name and the haven of his love. And she let him hold her in his arms while he poured across her shoulder his divine sentiments. Now and then she would turn her head and gaze up at him in worship and longing, and at last, with an irresistible passion, she whirled and threw her arms around him and gave him her kisses, and his arms tightened about her in a frenzy of rapture.
That could not be acting. Bret swore that it was real.
They clung together till several humorous characters appeared at doors and windows and she broke away in confusion. There were explanations, untying of knots and tying of others, and the play closed in a comedy finish.
The curtain went down and up and down and up in a storm of applause, and Sheila bowed and bowed, holding Eldon’s hand and generously recommending him to the audience. He bowed to her and bowed himself off and left her standing and nodding with quaint little ducks of the head and mock efforts to escape, mock expressions of surprise at finding the curtain up again and the audience still there.
Bret had to wait till the women got into their hats and wraps. They were talking, laughing, and sopping up their tears. They had been well fed on sorrow and joy and they were ready for supper and sleep.
Bret wanted to fight his way through in football manner, but he could hardly move. The crowd ebbed out with the deliberation of a glacier, and he could not escape either the people or their comments. The Chicago papers had not heard of Sheila’s marriage to him. He was a nonentity. The sensation of the town was the romance of Sheila Kemble and Floyd Eldon.
When at last Bret was free of the press he dashed round to the stage entrance. The old doorkeeper made no resistance, for the play was over and visitors often came back to pay their compliments to the troupe. Bret was the first to arrive.
In his furious haste he stumbled down the steps to the stage and almost sprawled. He had to wait while a squad of “grips” went by with a huge folded flat representing the whole side of a canvas house.
He stepped forward; a sandbag came down and struck him on the shoulder. He tripped on the cables of the box lights and lost his glasses. While he groped about for them he heard the orchestra, muffled by the curtain, playing the audience out to a boisterous tune. His clutching fingers were almost stepped on by two men carrying away a piece of solid stairway.